Reaping Thorns
by Jantallian
Summary: Past deeds have bitter consequences, making a trial of trust, threatening the foundations of brotherhood, staking Jess's very life and sending Slim on an almost impossible quest. (Sequel to 'My Brother's Keeper')
1. Chapter 1

.

.

.

 **THE PRICE OF RESURRECTION TRILOGY**

The Second Story

.

 **REAPING THORNS**

Jántallian

.

 **Part 1**

' _Friendship that flows from the heart cannot be frozen by adversity,_

 _as the water that flows from the spring cannot congeal in winter.'_

James F. Cooper

.

 **1**

.

The rain blew horizontally along the road from Laramie, cold sheets of bitter drops driven southeast by a knife-chill wind. The rattle of falling water and the hiss of the gale obscured all other sounds. So the small buggy pulled in to the relay station unnoticed. The occupant was relatively dry, since the rain had been behind all the way from the town. It would be in her face going back. But it was worth it. And it was another score to add to his account.

It was scarcely mid-morning, but almost as dark as dusk. The ranch-house was tucked into the side of the hill like a small animal, burrowing away from danger. There was no sign of life in the corrals or the yard. Even the dogs were huddled in the shelter of the barn. The place might have been empty, dead, scoured of life by the relentless elements. But a single lighted window threw a warm glow of welcome out to any passing stranger struggling through the storm in search of shelter.

Her struggle through the storm had one objective and one only.

The buggy drew to a halt alongside the hitching rail. There was no sign that its arrival had been noticed. This was partly because there was almost no-one to notice. She had seen the old man and the boy alight from the early stage and make a dash for the Hotel. From her obscure seat in the lobby she had been able to overhear their conversation and knew that the owner was not at home. There was only one person left on the relay station. Thus circumstances played into her hand and she was not forced to engineer a solitary meeting.

The woman pulled her heavy cloak close about her and tightened the strings of the hood. She drew a deep breath and braced herself for the impact of the wind and the rain as she dismounted. This was a wise precaution. If she had not been hitching the reins to the rail, she would have been struck down. As it was, once she let go, the force of the wind almost drove her to her knees as she was flung in the direction of the building. Her outstretched hands hit the log wall hard. They were protected by her gloves, but she had no feeling at all as she groped and staggered her way along the front of the house until she could look into the lighted window. The indignity of her progress added yet another score to his account.

It was the kitchen window from which the light was flooding. She looked in. The range was glowing cheerfully and a big lantern hung from the ceiling, swaying occasionally as a particularly strong blast of wind struck the house. It looked positively cozy, but the room was basic, primitive. A few wall cupboards with utensils hanging under them. A small sink with some items to be washed. Bunches of herbs dangling from hooks on the wall. A side of bacon waiting to be carved on the bench below the window. A place without refinement or culture, a place where family connections and status had to play second fiddle to the strains of living hand to mouth. Her own mouth curled with contempt and malice, yet a shudder ghosted over her skin at the memory of the price she had paid to rise above such an existence.

There was a man working at the opposite bench, under the cupboards. He was making bread. His back was to the watcher, who could see the strong muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing under his shirt as he rolled the dough out with the heel of his hand, then pulled it back into a round with his fingers, rolled it out again and drew it back. The movement was rhythmic, soothing. He was whistling softly under his breath as he worked. She recognized the plaintive melody and recalled the words: ' _For_ _I am a rebel soldier and I'm oh so far from home'._

But he wasn't far away. He was home. Peacefully making bread as if there were no more important thing to do in the world. He was even wearing an apron. Her lips tightened with contempt as she took in this symbol of domesticity. It was utterly at odds with her memory of his cold and merciless character. Another charade? Another illusion, just like the illusion that there was any safety or any trust? How could there be any true peace, any real family? If it existed in this place, it was a peace and a family she had come to shatter.

The bread-maker had finished kneading the dough to his satisfaction and was dividing it into several tins waiting on the bench. When he had done so he turned away as a fit of harsh coughing suddenly shook him. It was the only sign of weakness she had ever seen in him. It made a bitter pleasure touch her face again.

She turned away from the window, from this fragile calm shining out against the rage of the elements. She struggled back along the wall to the front door. The power of the storm was nothing compared with the rage burning within her.

The front door was not locked. She opened it, knowing that any betraying noise would be concealed by the racket of the wind and rain.

The room inside was dim, unlit except for a well-made fire glowing on the hearth. It was peaceful, almost still despite the weather outside. She gained an impression of bare walls, one or two pictures and some of shelves of books. A gun-rack in the corner. Minimal furniture – a couch in front of the fire, a rocking chair, a bench under the window and nearby an old-fashioned desk with a chair pulled up to it. In the middle of the room was a big, plain scrubbed table with four or five chairs around it. She pulled out the one opposite the kitchen door and sat down. She waited.

 **\- # - # - # -**

The man came through the kitchen door, unhitching the apron with one hand so that he could toss it back into the room. In his other hand he was clutching a bundle of cutlery. Knives and forks.

He stopped, frozen in mid-movement, as he sensed someone's presence in the room. The faint perfume in the air must have told him at once that it was a woman, but nothing more. The room was so dark she was just a slender silhouette, seated on the far side of the table. After the briefest pause, he took the three paces to the other side of it. He reached up and pulled down the oil lamp hanging over the table. There was a spitting sound and a sudden smell of sulfur as he struck a match one-handed. The soft glow of the lamp gradually filled the space between them.

As the light began to lift the shadows, she felt an unexpected shock. In silhouette, he had looked exactly the same - lean, hard, broad shoulders, narrow hips, with all the grace and power of a hunting wolf. In the light, she was facing a stranger. The chiseled planes of the face were the same but, just for a moment, before he registered who she was, he looked relaxed and happy. A crooked half smile was on his lips, as if an inner joke was amusing him. Gone was the narrow line of the mustache which had made his mouth look so cruel. She was looking into deep blue eyes, not black ones. His hair, no longer slicked back, was rough and curly, a stray lock tumbling over his forehead in a way which would be very appealing, had she felt anything but hatred for him. And he looked so young. Because he was. Much too young for the life-events she had been able to discover. So much younger than she had realized.

He stood looking down at her. His face was now completely expressionless, just as it had been when they had parted almost a year ago. Not a sound escaped his lips. The woman too remained silent and still. There might have been a thousand miles of icy waste between them instead of an ordinary table.

At length he moved, setting down the cutlery with infinite care upon the bare surface. The last time they had been face to face, she had taunted him that he could not use a knife and fork properly.

"Miss Sherman-Gordon." The husky tones were the same - and still, she realized with fury, capable of sending a shiver down her spine. And why had he never, ever addressed her, even when they had been most intimate, in anything other than formal terms? "Y' have a reason for bein' here?"

The accent caught her by surprise. Not the cold, slightly English tones she remembered when he broke his habitual silence – this was a voice with roots in a country of its own. The shock rendered her momentarily speechless herself. How long was it since she had heard that hated Texan accent, the seductive drawl which promised warmth, security, trust - and then betrayed it? She let the silence grow between them. He ought to be used to it!

Eventually it was she who broke it, coldly, impersonally: "Would I waste my time and money getting here without one?" The very word 'time' drove another stab of recollection through her.

He said nothing – he was good at that! – merely leant forward, his hands on the table, as if inviting her to go on. She could not know the significance of the stance, the long timeless moments he had spent leaning just like that, when grief made any movement unbearable.

"Yes, I have a reason. A reason I thought you ought to hear."

"I'm listenin'!"

She told him.

She saw his expression change and she knew she was right. She had found the weapon which would stab through the cold self-control which had so enticed and baffled her! Only once before had she seen that feeling in his eyes: the time he had challenged her with her lack of care for a child of her family. It was the look of someone to whom family is of supreme importance – someone who would fight and die to protect the children of that family – someone for whom the continuing life of the generations was an integral part of the purpose of existence. She knew too the lengths to which he had gone to find and protect those he cared for, even though they were not related by blood. How much more he would give for those who were his own.

"Why didn't you tell -?" The question was bitten off in mid-breath because he knew the truth. Why would she confide in a man she thought was as callous and cold-blooded as she was? When he had deceived her and all she held dear, why should she trust him? Yet he was to be trusted absolutely over this. There was no way he would allow harm to come to the defenseless, to the vulnerable in his care, to the ones it was his desire as well as his duty to protect.

With her next words, she shattered all that protection and love. She told him what she had done.

"Catherine, you can't have! How could you?" His voice was soft now, pleading … but it was too late. She could see all too clearly what might have been. See that here was a man who would never desert or betray his children. Never abandon a little one to their fate as she had been abandoned so long ago by a father who never wanted the name. The want was unmistakable in this man's voice and in his face. In the gentleness and the compassion and the strength.

But it was too late for gentleness, too late for caring, too late for first names – much, much too late to purge the festering bitterness she had carried like a long thorn driven through the armor of her egotism, deep into her heart.

She rose to her feet, ignoring his appeal, and walked to the door. In the doorway, she turned and looked back at him.

"You should have used that knife!"

.

* * *

.

Notes: Apologies to Texans for maligning the accent and not being terribly good at writing it.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

.

 **2**

.

Jess stood staring down at the table, but he was not seeing it or rather he was not seeing it as it was now. He saw a letter lying on the table. The letter which had started a whole sequence of events. The letter announcing Slim's death.

He thought he had lived through the agony of the news it had contained. He thought discovering it was all a ruthless plot would erase the numbing desolation. He thought finding and rescuing Slim would enable the wounds to heal and life to be restored. Now a single communication, as totally unexpected as that letter, had driven into the depths of his being a new loss, more terrible because it should have been ...

At this point, he stopped thinking. Or rather, his mind went into the same lock-down as it had before, when the anguish was simply too much to bear.

The old wound had been torn open again. Buried deep within him, its agony flooded his heart and mind once more. Not simply overwhelming pain. Its dark power - the black place of lethal failure which he kept implacably imprisoned in his soul – tore at his very being. The sense of his own worthlessness and his betrayal of so much trust, which had shadowed him at his own homecoming from St. Louis, was now inescapable. And it was utterly at odds with the peace of the relay station and the faith that Slim had placed in him. It was the power of destruction looming over Andy, whose very life had been put into his guardianship and for which he cared more than his own. He felt as if this evil manifestation was reaching out through him to destroy all those he held most dear. He had failed before. He had not protected those who trusted him and the innocent had suffered so terribly. He would never allow that to happen again! Better that he sever, once and for all, the bonds with those whom he would give his life, his very soul to protect.

He began methodically to prepare to leave. Automatically he went back to the kitchen and put the risen bread into the hottest oven. He found some supplies, filled a couple of water bottles and took a small flask, into which he poured a little of Jonesy's precious supply of medicinal whiskey. Getting drunk would not help him, but subconsciously he was recognizing that sooner or later his body, already fighting a virulent infection which he refused outwardly to acknowledge, was going to demand some respite. All he had gathered he dumped on the table, ready to pack into his saddlebags.

Then he went out to the barn. His first action was to saddle Traveller, ready for the journey he must make away from everything and everyone he loved and was trying so desperately to defend. His horse regarded him with equine surprise. Not only were conditions appalling and the idea of going out in them most unappealing, but Traveller knew from long familiarity that the One was not really fit enough to ride, least of all in the middle of a storm. In the next door stall, Alamo snorted and tossed his head, equally uneasy, missing his owner and further disturbed by Jess's obvious preparations to leave. It was not that the two men never rode out separately: it was just something in the way Jess was working which triggered a sense of danger and uncertainty. Each movement was very deliberate, quite unlike his normal quick and competent carrying out of routine tasks, as if he were being driven by some overwhelming invisible force, an inexorable compulsion against which he was powerless.

When Traveller was saddled, Jess leaned back for a moment on the partition, struggling to catch his breath. The bay nudged a soft nose into his ribs, which did not help, and Alamo leaned over and huffed into his hair, after which the two horses rubbed noses across the partition. Jess steeled himself to ignore the affection between them. Traveller was going to have to desert his friend, just as Jess was, and he was certain that the break would be just as painful for the two horses as it was for him.

Once everything was in readiness for his departure, Jess fed and watered all the other horses, brought in the second string from the corral and prepared the first team for the noon stage - the drivers would have to do the changing themselves. The effort made him cough fiercely again, which, characteristically, he ignored, along with the persistent throbbing which was beginning to fill his head.

He scarcely noticed the weather in all this nor the fact that he was soaked to the skin when he returned to the house. He just shook the water impatiently out of his eyes as it dripped from his hair. _Why the devil hadn't he put on his hat?_ He grabbed it from the peg by the door along with his jacket and dumped them both on the table, then went to pack his clothes.

In the bunk-room he came to a halt by the bunk bed he had slept in for so long. Once it had felt almost like a trap, something to hold and confine him, for he had been used to sleeping in the open air almost all the time on the drift and sleeping in a bed indoors was unfamiliar. Well, he would miss the warmth and shelter now; his heart would mourn what he had once been uneasy with. The bed was no longer his. He reached up and carefully straightened the sheets and pillow, tucking in the blankets neatly so that it was ready for another occupant ...

Turning away and trying to master the lump in his throat over such a simple thing, he rummaged through the minimal contents of his two drawers. Socks, a couple of shirts, pants, some underwear, spare bandannas - he shoved them into his saddlebag haphazardly, resenting fiercely the effort of concentration which even these small decisions seemed to cost his increasingly blurry mind. His breathing was thick and uneasy, making concentration difficult. Nonetheless, he snatched up his heavy full-length coat, the one Slim had made him buy after the first winter. Winter would not be long coming now and wherever he ended up he would need it.

Rain and hail rattled against the window. He was suddenly aware that he was standing in a puddle of water. A huge shiver ran through his body. _Damn! How had he got so wet?_ He ran his hands down his body, hoping to squeeze his clothes dry. It was useless. Angrily he flung them off, his chest wheezing with the exertion, and found something dry to put on instead.

Back in the living room he plucked his own personal rifle from the rack, stuffed as much ammunition in his saddlebag as it would hold. Last, he went to the hiding place in the chimney-breast and took out his gunfighter's weapon. Strapping on his gun-belt, he replaced the normal gun, consigning that as well to the saddlebag, just in case. He opened his wallet, pulled out two documents and a handful of notes. In Slim's desk he found a piece of paper on which he scribbled a single word. It was almost all he could manage to focus on, for it felt as if someone was beating a war-drum inside his head. He placed the paper with the documents and the money on the table and picked up the belongings he had piled there. Another bout of coughing shook him as he did so. Nonetheless, he was ready.

As he strode to the door, the aroma of new bread drifted from the kitchen. It was such a familiar smell, the essence of the safety of home. He had to make sure the home was left secure. He pulled the bread from the oven, tipped it out onto the cooling racks, then banked down the stove and doused the living room fire. The wind was roaring in the chimney with the full force of the storm. It reminded him that he had been soaked before. He pulled on his heavy coat and his hat. He locked both doors and headed for the barn.


	3. Chapter 3

.

.

.

 **3**

.

Rain drove horizontally down the road from Laramie and the wind rattled and shook the canvas of the wagon viciously. The driving seat was relatively sheltered but Slim was praying that the wet was not driving into the back and soaking the precious, urgently needed, not to say expensive, grain sacks in the bed of the wagon. If he could, he would have left fetching supplies until the weather was better – such persistently stormy weather was highly unusual, even at this time of year - but he had already held off until there was no other option. The horses needed the grain and the stage company expected him to do his job and keep them fed and fit. _At least he had been able to leave Andy and Jonesy in the comparative comfort of the Hotel until the next morning's stage, despite their having come into town to do exactly the essential task he was carrying out himself._ He was deeply grateful for Jonesy's reliability and Andy's sense of responsibility.

And he was deeply worried about Jess. If Jonesy had persuaded him to stay at home and not to do the supply fetching himself, he must be feeling, ironically, really under the weather! Jess's sense of responsibility and his reliability were equally trustworthy and Slim knew full well that he had to be out on his feet before he would admit to being ill or injured. On the other hand, changing the teams was going to be even more exposed to the elements than driving the wagon - there was no shelter in the yard and, with the rain driving full across it, the horses were going to be very difficult to handle. Slim had left the wagon at the Stores to be loaded before he took the stage on to Casper and all that was needed was a driver to bring it home. Maybe Jess figured the lesser of two evils was a comparatively quick and dry stage run into Laramie for Jonesy and Andy and only the return journey, with the wind following, to make at the mercy of the elements. Slim hoped he was right!

Dusk was already closing down, exacerbated by the heavy cloud cover and rain-laden air. As he drove into the yard, Slim noted gloomily the deep, muddy ruts left by the laden coaches of the day. The ground was churned up with hoof-prints from the restless teams. Apart from the lashing of the wind, nothing moved. Everything was empty and shadowy, as if the place had been deserted. Slim frowned, worry doubling as he took in the dark windows of the ranch house, the faint wisp of smoke from the kitchen chimney and nothing at all from the main one. _Surely if Jess was feeling really ill, he'd have the sense to keep warm?_

But he had the grain to unload and it was obvious Jess was not going to rush out and help him. Slim shrugged. He drove the wagon under the hoist and then thought the better of it. Handling heavy sacks was going to be dangerous single-handed in a high wind and the much-needed grain would quickly be soaked. Instead he drove the whole lot into the wagon barn. It could wait till morning! Since there were some spare stalls at the back of this barn, he made his team comfortable there, rather than moving them through the deluge to the main horse barn. With some water and a couple of handfuls of the grain, they should be fine.

Because he knew Jess would never neglect the horses and because it was obvious that the teams had been changed during the day, he did not check in the main barn at this point. His worry had deepened to considerable unease. It was totally unlike Jess to ignore his arrival. He would at least light the lamps, even if he did feel too grim to come outside and help. Slim made straight for the house and the nearest door, the one to the kitchen.

It was locked.

He didn't even bother to try the other door, just fished out his key and unlocked the one in front of him. Inside he stood in the dark, listening intently.

There was no sound of life.

But the smell of new baked bread permeated the room and the stove was still glowing steadily, as if banked down for the night. He felt along the shelf and found the matches. As golden light flooded the kitchen, he smiled. Six beautiful crusty loaves lay on the cooling racks. His imagination could picture Jess making them, although it wasn't something he had stood and watched very often. Jess liked to be left alone when he was bread-making; he said he enjoyed the peace of it, but Slim guessed that, deep down, there was also a precious connection with someone or something he loved.

He rapped the top of one of the loaves with his knuckles and it gave back a solid, comforting sound. But it was cool. Jess must have taken it out of the oven hours ago.

Slim's smile faded and his hand clenched on the handle of the lamp. _What in heaven's name was going on? The silent house, the cold bread, the smoldering stove - and no Jess. If he had put himself to bed, then he had far worse than a bad cough and must be seriously ill!_

Slim was across the living room and into the bunk-room before he had even thought about it. It was still. Still and cold. Still and cold and empty. He knew that even before he lifted the lamp to check the top bunk. To his utter surprise and disbelief, the blankets had been neatly tucked in and the pillow shaken up, instead of the usual impression of a haphazard burrow reluctantly vacated and hastily straightened by its occupant.

Baffled, Slim turned the lamp on the bottom bunk and other two beds. They were just as empty. Why he bothered to look he did not know, unless he expected to find Jess so ill he'd collapsed into the nearest available bed. That would be highly alarming, but better by far than this disturbing emptiness.

 _So where the heck was he?_

Across the room something caught Slim's eye. One of the bureau drawers was slightly open, with a piece of material hanging out. One of Jess's drawers. Slim opened it. The contents - or rather the remaining contents - were even more chaotic than usual. The material was the sleeve of Jess's best shirt. Slim took it out and folded it automatically, before replacing it neatly in the drawer. No-one had ever persuaded Jess there was any point in folding things.

It was the shirt he'd worn last Saturday night. Slim turned to check that Jess's good jacket was still hanging at the end of his bunk on the hanger with which Slim had threatened to beat him if he didn't use it. The memory brought a brief grin with it. They'd both been a hair's breadth from drunk.

Slim closed the drawer and opened the one below. There had never been much in it in the first place. The few remaining garments were scrunched up in one corner. He shut the drawer and, as he turned away, his boot caught on something on the floor. When he bent to examine it, he found a pile of wet clothes. Jess's clothes. His heart sank.

He went back into the living room. In his haste to find his sick friend he had taken no notice of any clues which might be there.

The first thing he noticed was a couple of cartridge boxes, upended on the table. They did not contain bullets. Instead he found a roll of dollar bills. No note. Just the money. He frowned. They shared the running costs of the ranch. Jess had no need to pay for ammunition which was already his. _So who had he sold it to? And more important, why did they need ammunition and had Jess lit out with them? And if so, why again?_

Slim's head was beginning to ache with tension and, if he was honest, exasperation at this mystery. It had been nearly a year since Jess's last disappearance and Slim himself, his very life, had been the reason why. That intervening year had been a tough one beginning, as it did, with Slim's slow recuperation from his wounds, when all the workload and responsibility had fallen on Jess. Long hours and scarce help had left them little time for talk, even if Slim had not been struggling to come to terms with the way his supposedly loving fiancée had participated in his torture and ultimately rejected him so cruelly. There had been a long, hard winter and unseasonable cool spring - a difficult-to-cure sickness amongst some of the stock - bills coming in which meant one or other of them working away from the ranch for the extra income. Then a drought in summer and the loss of some of Jess's precious horses to an opportunist Indian raid. There never seemed to have been time for anything but unremitting hard work. Certainly there had been no time for sharing the past or their feelings about it or discussing what the future might hold, except in planning for the next set of tasks and tackling the problems they had to solve.

 _Had Jess just got tired of the routine, rekindled his old yearning for the Big Open and taken off for a while – or even for good?_

He didn't think so. Jonesy had been seriously concerned about the persistent hacking cough, the severity of which Jess refused to acknowledge even when it momentarily stopped him speaking. And Jonesy had managed to persuade him to stay at the relay station. The mere fact of this argued that Jess was less than his usual forceful, not to say coercion-resistant, self. It certainly didn't suggest he was planning a relaxing holiday from the daily chores! If he had left, there had to be some utterly inescapable pressure making him do so. Either that, or he had gone completely mad!

Slim slumped into a chair and sat staring at the boxes and the roll of bills. He just could not believe Jess would leave for good. Not now. Not after all that Jess had done to rescue him. Not after all that they had been through and built together. Not after Slim had made him legally a member of the family.

It was some time before his troubled gaze expanded to include the whole table. He saw, as if for the first time, the other papers, lying a little separated from the boxes and the money.

He stretched out a hand. The top paper was a sheet of his own note-paper with a single word scrawled on it in Jess's unmistakable handwriting. Underneath were two sets of papers, the ownership registration for Jess's second string, Smoke, and for the black stallion he had brought back from St. Louis.

The single word on the paper was: _Andy's._


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

.

 **4**

.

Traveller tucked his tail tight against his quarters. His ears were laid back flat along his skull and his head bowed down against his chest and turned a little to his left as he tramped forward through the relentless rain. He was uneasy. The One was loose in the saddle, the way he sometimes rode when there was nothing to worry about and he was just enjoying the pleasure of being in harmony with Traveller. But it was not pleasure now. Traveller could hear and feel the ragged coughs shaking his rider's body. He knew when The One was trusting him, relying on him to pick the right path, to bring them somewhere they could find safety. It had happened before – when The One had caught an arrow to the chest, when he'd taken a beating which left him hardly able to stand, when he'd been without proper food for days on end … Traveller knew when things were bad. The One coughed again. Traveller slipped in the treacherous footing and all but wrenched a tendon, trying to save his rider from a jolting. Things were bad.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Jess raised bleary eyes and tried to look ahead. The rain slashed across his face, despite the protection of his hat. The rain was coming from his right side. He was still going south, then.

For a while he could not remember why he was heading south, except that it was marginally easier in the teeth of the storm than going west. _Going west!_ _The old euphemism for dying. Well, he was already dead._ The promise of life had been cruelly ripped from him. There was nothing left but darkness and pain and guilt and overwhelming grief.

 _So why was he heading south? Why head up the mountain ridge to the south?_ _South of where? Of the Sherman Relay Station!_ The name pulled his mind back from its shadowy confusion a little. He still had responsibilities. As well as his intense need to protect Andy from the threat of Jess's own presence, he owed it to Slim that his leaving would not jeopardize the ranch. He was going to do something for Slim. He just could not remember what.

Rain lashed across him and the wind battered his body. He was not moving. Traveller had stopped. Jess hauled himself upright from the slumped position in which he had been riding. Another coughing fit racked him. He peered into the drenched, misty air ahead. _Where was he?_

After a while, he focused on a gate. Traveller had brought him to the top of the lower ranges. A line of fencing stretched right and left, following the contours of the land. He felt as if he knew every fence post, every pole, every inch of the ground. He and Slim had built this fence together. Slim would never know how much enclosing the land cost Jess and how great a tribute it was to their partnership that Jess was a willing worker alongside him. They had built the fence. Jess struggled to remember why.

He had come up here for a reason. The fence had something to do with it. Traveller had faithfully carried him to this point, responsive to the unspoken intention of his rider. Now there was a gate. Traveller could not deal with gates. Horse and rider stood in the driving rain while Jess forced his mind to concentrate on the reason for their being there.

 _The gate._ _He needed to open the gate. Then everything would be clea_ r. He urged Traveller up to the latch, forced the gate open with some difficulty and rode through, pulling it shut behind him.

 _It was important to shut the gate. Why?_

Shutting the gate stopped the herd getting back into the upper ranges which were only grazed in summer and early autumn. The terrain was wild. The steep slopes and rocky streams were treacherous. No place for Slim's precious stock in winter. If the herd was not moved, he would inevitably suffer losses which the ranch, in its ever-precarious financial position, could not afford. They had been moving the herd down from the summer grazing.

Jess's head came up and he looked around with clearer vision. Ahead the land narrowed into a steep defile between rugged slopes. At the bottom a swollen stream churned and boiled with the force of the extra water it was carrying. Beyond the defile, he knew there was a sheltered valley of lush but short-lived grass. The youngest steers had been grazing up there, fattening up for winter. If they were not moved soon, the stream would fill the defile and they would be trapped there, where there would be no winter feed.

He'd come to move the steers. That was it. The last thing he could do to ensure Slim would not suffer because of his desertion, his betrayal. He pulled the gate open again, so that it formed a wing to guide the stock through into the lower range.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Horse and rider passed up the defile, skirting the stream carefully. Eventually they emerged into the valley. The One hauled himself upright again. Traveller snorted, his ears pricked as he sighted the steers. This was work. Horse and rider working together. This was something they could do.

 **\- # - # - # -**

In the normal course of events, Jess would have singled out the lead steer, roped it and towed it down behind him, through the gate, beyond the fence, knowing the rest would follow soon enough. But nothing was normal. The stormy conditions, the uncertain footing, and the weakness and confusion which he barely admitted to, meant this was not an option. He dare not risk being unable to loose the steer and having to leave it with a trailing rope round its neck. He would have to drive the herd down and get them moving sufficiently fast to prevent them balking at the defile and the stream. He really needed someone else at the gate, to stop the herd spreading out on the wrong side of the fence, and to shut the gate after them. But there was no-one. He would have to manage on his own.

The young steers were huddled up under the shelter of some trees overhanging the far end of the valley. There were only fifty or so of them, but they were restless, irritable, disturbed by the weather. The approach of a lone horseman did not improve their mood. Jess was faced with a barricade of lowered heads and tossing horns.

Traveller snorted, turning by long experience in an attempt flank them. The herd shifted in response. They did not want to leave the shelter of the trees and the overhanging hillside. Jess could not blame them. But they were going to starve if they didn't move right now. He urged Traveller further to the flank of the herd, so that the horse was picking an uncertain and slippery path along the steep slope of the valley side. The wind drove against them and Jess swayed in the saddle, automatically trying to shift his weight so he was aiding, not hindering his mount. Three times Traveller skidded and slid, desperately struggling to maintain balance on the water-sodden ground. Jess knew if he or his horse fell now, they would spook the steers and probably be trampled in the panic.

At last they were as far round the side of the herd as it was possible to get without actually climbing the trees themselves. Jess could see the lead steer, the one he should be roping, its head following every move of the horse and rider. Fortunately it was not in the middle of the herd, but right out on the edge, closer to the valley mouth than to the trees. Jess knew that if he could once get it to run, the rest would follow and their momentum would carry them down the defile and into safe grazing.

He pulled out his rifle and drew in a deep breath at the same time. At least, he intended it to be a deep breath, but somehow the air rasped in his lungs and a sense of dizziness possessed him. He shook his head vigorously, which was not much help. Reining Traveller round to face the west, he caught the full force of the driving rain in his face. He could barely see at all, but trusted his horse to manage the next maneuver safely. He blessed a providence which had given horses eyes in the side of their heads, not the front, without which they would both have been blinded by the deluge.

Jess felt Traveller brace his legs for the slide down into the valley. This was the most dangerous part. If the steers chose to block together instead of turning and running, they were in deep trouble. He took aim at the clear space just behind the lead steer, between it and the rest, and fired several shots into the ground before he urged his horse downward. They slid down the hill in a spectacular shower of mud and stones and water, Jess firing again and again, this time into the air, and at the same time waving his hat and yelling at the top of his lungs. The yelling achieved nothing, as his voice was lost in the storm and his breath would have been more useful keeping him conscious, but somehow it made him feel better.

The herd bellowed and heaved, turning away from horse and rider. Jess saw with utter thankfulness that the lead was heading down the valley and the whole lot were soon pouring after it. He kept up the pressure so they did not slow and by some miracle they surged through the defile without any accidents and boiled in a hairy, horn-tossing stream through the open gate.

Jess heaved a sigh of relief as he and Traveller fetched up at the gate again. All he had to do now was to shut it and the herd was safe for Slim. The gate was swollen with the rain and had bedded down into the mud. It was a struggle to get it to move at all. Jess yanked and pulled, unwilling to dismount and deal with it because this would leave him on foot with a bunch of disturbed steers not far away. Eventually the wretched thing moved with a glutinous squelch as it left the mud and began to swing closed.

The gate was nearly closed when the lead steer decided to charge back to freedom. As it bellowed and hurled towards them, Jess instinctively swung his leg out to try to kick it on the nose and protect Traveller's flank from the gouging horns. The gap in the gateway was too narrow for man, horse and animal. The steer balked at the last second, flinging up its head. The right horn caught Jess's descending leg under his chaps, tearing a long cut up his calf to the back of his knee. He swore violently, pulling on the reins so that Traveller backed to the other side of the gate. The steer shook itself loose and raced away down the pasture to join its fellows. Jess slammed the gate shut and fastened it.

Rain beat down relentlessly. Blood ran down with the water soaking his pants, another relentless stream. It didn't hurt. Jess was adept as switching off 'it hurts' and ignoring the pain of injuries. But he was muzzily aware that he needed to do something about this cut. He struggled to wrench open a saddlebag and pull out a spare bandanna, which he clumsily tied as tight as he could round his injured leg. It was difficult to see if the flow of blood was affected because there was so much water running off him. But at least it was washing the wound clean. Beyond that, his primitive treatment would have to be enough.

He needed shelter. He had done what he came to do. Now he needed to find somewhere to hole up until the storm finally blew itself out. He pulled on the reins again, roughly, quite unlike his usual style of riding. He could hardly breathe and his leg felt numb and he could only just communicate with his horse.

 **\- # - # - # -**

But they had come through so much together. Traveller obligingly turned and forged his way up the defile again. Once at the head of the valley, the horse kept going westward, up the mountain slope, through the trees, scrambling and struggling in the direction he thought his rider wanted. The One was slumped once more, but this time lying flat along Traveller's neck. The reins fell slack. There was no guidance as to direction. Traveller followed his instincts and his memory. They'd worked up here in the summer. He remembered warmth and rest at the end of a long day. He remembered laughter of The One and his companion, the flicker of firelight coming from the windows, the soft grazing below the open door. His ears pricked and his head turned from side to side as he surveyed possible trails. Presently he moved on again, certain now of his destination. The swirling veils of rain and the gathering dusk enveloped horse and rider and hid them from view.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Something loomed up out of the shadows. They had stopped again. This time, Jess did not rise from where he lay collapsed along his horse's neck. He automatically grasped two handfuls of mane as he slithered helplessly to the ground. He crouched by Traveller's hooves, doubled over with racking coughs, for what seemed like an eternity.

At last he was able to use the stirrup leather to haul himself upright. He seemed to be in a clearing. There was a low timber building right in front of him. Traveller had halted by the hitching rail. No-one came out to ask what they were doing.

It took some time for Jess to realise it was a line shack. The last one, highest on the south western border of the ranch. Shelter, then, because they had left it open. He reached up slowly, pulled off his saddlebags, one of which was still flapping open, and slung them in the direction of the doorway. He had a vague idea there might be something in them he needed. But first he had to tend to his faithful companion, who had struggled and climbed and carried him safely to this place without any guidance. There was a lean-to stable to the side, he remembered.

"C'mon, Trav!" he muttered hoarsely, pulling at the reins. The horse followed him into shelter and halted in the nearest of the two stalls. Jess laboriously hauled off saddle and bridle, murmuring apologies for his roughness. Traveller breathed out a long, damp breath and rubbed his head affectionately against his rider. This was not a good idea. Jess fell back against the wall, clutching his ribs. "Give over, y'old fool!"

He tried to pick up the saddle and heave it onto the partition, but suddenly found he did not have the strength. He had to settle for propping it up against the wall and dumping the bridle over it. With much effort he managed to get some water into the water-bucket and found a couple of handfuls of oats for Traveller. There was no hay to be had, as the line shack was not used in winter. Jess gave his mount a consolatory rub on the nose, worried that he was not caring for him properly but feeling too weak and shaky to do anything about it. Maybe if the rain ever stopped, he could let Traveller graze for a while.

He gave the horse a final pat and muttered, "Sorry, boy … nowhere … else … can't … go home now …" His voice trailed off as his throat muscles burned and he coughed again.

He staggered out of the stable, glad that he did not have to carry the saddlebags as well. He felt his way along the shack, leaning heavily on the wall, and fetched up at the door, which was not locked. He leaned against the frame, his breath wheezing and it was some minutes before he could take in how they'd left the shelter after the summer.

Entering, he found that at least the fire was laid, ready to light. He struck a match and knelt by the fireplace, struggling to get the kindling to catch. His hands were trembling and it was several minutes before he could apply the flame for long enough to set the fire going. Presently, however, a pleasant blaze began to take the chill off the room.

Chill. Jess became conscious that he was crouched on his knees before the fire. Water was dripping from his soaked clothing and literally running down his body. He fumbled clumsily with buttons and straps, trying to drag off the offending garments and get dry. He managed to divest himself of his heavy coat. His saddlebags revealed that he had forgotten to bring a towel and, in any case, his clothes contained in the open one were sodden, rain having penetrated the leather as well as entering under the loosened protective flap. But over against the far wall were a couple of beds with blankets neatly folded on them. Even in his confused and shaky state, Jess summoned up the ghost of a grin. _Trust Slim to fold the blankets tidily!_

He bundled them up, just about as many as he could manage to carry. The distance across the room seemed enormous and everything was swaying and indistinct. He collapsed in front of the fire, knowing he needed to take off his soaking jacket and his equally wet shirt and pants and get into something dry. It was too much effort. He heaped up the blankets as best he could and rolled himself into them, barely getting himself covered before he fell into darkness.

Outside the storm raged unabated through the depths of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

.

.

.

 **5**

.

In the stable, Traveller shifted uneasily from hoof to hoof.

The storm shrieked and battered the building and outside the trees were groaning as if in pain. The drumming of the rain, sleet and hail on the roof was a perpetual thunder, overlaid with lash and rattle of gusts which were driven against the walls. It was completely dark, no sign of approaching daylight, not even any light falling from the window of the shack.

At last the wind died down somewhat, although the downpour did not cease. It was a dull, persistence hiss at the edge of hearing, so familiar now that Traveller was no longer conscious of it. He was listening for other sounds. The back wall of the stable adjoined the shack and memory supplied the sounds the humans made when they were in residence - the sound of movement and cooking, the rumble of talking and joking and occasional bickering, the laughter and the sense of shared silence. This would not happen because it was only The One on his own. The Other One was not there. Alamo was not in the stall beside him.

He missed his stable companion just as much as he was sure The One missed The Other. More than this, he missed any sign of human life. There had been a brief smell of smoke, scarcely detectable in the turbulent air, but there was no aroma of cooking and no glimmer of fire or lamp light leaking through the chinks in the wooden wall. And absolutely no kind of movement. The One was not noisy on his own. But he was not so silent unless he was deliberately stalking something or unconscious.

Traveller was troubled. He edged round in his stall. The One never tied him or barred him in. Traveller had learnt early in their partnership to stay where he was told until he had some other signal or order. He looked at his saddle, leaning up against the wall, with the bridle dropped on top of it. The leather was still wet. Come to that, Traveller himself was still wet, for he had not been rubbed down. It was utterly unlike The One to neglect his equipment or his horse unless ... Traveller could remember the bad times when injury or sickness had forced his owner to be less scrupulous. He knew things were bad again.

Presently the horse came to a decision. Or rather, since equine thought-process is not like that of humans, eventually the accumulation of evidence drove him into action. His hooves lashed against the wall of the stable, an outburst of thunder distinguishable even in the storm. Surely The One would hear and investigate? Traveller added a shrill whinny to be sure.

There was no response - none the first time nor when Traveller repeated his desperate signal.

Early on in their acquaintance, while Traveller was still a young, hardly broken colt, The One had identified his escapologist tendencies and decided to capitalize on them. There was virtually nowhere Traveller could not get out of, given time and the normal barriers humans considered horse-proof. Now, in partnership with The One, he only escaped when ordered.

But now the bad time had come again.

Traveller stepped out of the stall and moved up to the door. It was not fastened, only dragged to, and not fully either. Hardly much of a challenge to an intelligent horse. In a few minutes, Traveller was outside in the pouring rain once more, in front of the apparently deserted shack. But he knew that The One had not left. He would have heard.

The horse gave another prolonged and ear-piercing shriek, all of his confusion and fear echoing through it. There was still no response.

What would The One want him to do? Traveller was used to all kinds of commands, verbal, tactile and signalled. Surely The One must have given him an order, if things were this bad? Traveller recalled the way he had been stalled. The One had talked to him, obviously conscious that he was not being his usual efficient self. His last words had been: "Go home now."

Go home. Home meant the barn and the stall beyond Alamo's, the corral and the paddocks, the yard with its stages and wayfarers. It meant the sounds of the chickens and of the strange collection of animals which the Young One kept. It was the Oldest banging noisily on a tin triangle, signalling the end of the working day and food for the humans. It was the quiet hay-scented darkness and the comfortable warmth of the other horses around him.

Traveller swivelled in a turn which set his head to the downward trail and galloped away. Home. That was the last command.


	6. Chapter 6

.

.

.

 **6**

.

Slim jolted awake, his mind echoing with the sound of hooves thundering and a piercingly shrill neigh. He was lying on his bed, still fully clothed except for his boots, shaken out of a deeply troubled dream.

Alone and baffled by the mystery, his common sense had told him there was nothing he could do that night, especially in the middle of the worsening storm. He had forced himself to lie down, knowing he would be no use to anyone if he became exhausted. But he had slept uneasily, stirring at every change in the wind, half rising when he heard the rattle of the door, always imagining it was Jess, just back from some long trail and so eager to be home that he was not employing the undoubted stealthiness of which he was capable. Every groan of the woodwork of the battered house made Slim hear the creak of the top bunk as his partner turned over. Not that Jess was a restless sleeper – except for the now thankfully occasional nightmare, when he would take himself off to the barn, he was usually remarkably still. Once he had become accustomed to sleeping inside, it was with a complete trust and abandon, like some wild animal curled up and resting deeply.

Unlike Slim's own sleep tonight. The rattle of hooves sounded even louder and the horse neighed again and again, the desperate sound of an animal in pain or terror. He could hear it clearly above the noise of the rain and wind. It was not part of his dreams. This was real.

He surged up off the bed and grabbed his boots, pulling them on as he stumbled out of the bedroom and struggling with the straps in a frenzy of urgency. The hooves hit the door of the barn again. At this rate, he would have some serious mending to do if he didn't get a move on. Nonetheless, he strapped on his gun-belt and shrugged into his long coat and picked up his rifle and slapped his hat on his head. No sense in just leaping into the night without another thought, even if that was exactly what Jess would do. If this was concerned with Jess and he was in some kind of trouble, Slim would be no help if he was unprepared. Unhooking and lighting a storm lantern took him a few more minutes, in which the sounds came again. Then he was ready to unlock the door and go out into the tempest-scoured yard.

There was a loose horse outside the barn doors. As the door of the house opened and before Slim could do more than step outside, the animal charged across the yard as if it was about to demolish the porch and everything on it. At the last minute it flung up its head, spun round on the spot with the proficiency of a good cutting horse, and headed back for the barn. It was Traveller.

It was Traveller alright. But Traveller without saddle or bridle, plastered with mud, wild-eyed and ribs heaving with exhaustion or panic.

Slim went swiftly but cautiously over to the barn. He had never seen Traveller in a state like this and he was uncertain how the horse would react if he tried to catch or rope it. Instead he eased one of the big doors open and went in, leaving it wide behind him. Maybe Traveller would respond to a familiar pattern and follow him in. He hung the lantern up and moved over to stand by Alamo's stall, rubbing the white blaze on his mount's head, because this too would be familiar to Traveller. The chestnut was standing, braced, his head high and every muscle tight in readiness for action. He ignored his rider and the caress of greeting completely.

Alamo whickered, a low, reassuring sound. The bay came slowly through the door, tensed to run, like a wild horse which had never been inside a stable in its life. Slim made the mistake of edging round to try to close the door and at once Traveller reared up, his hooves flashing wickedly in the lamplight. He executed another of those swivel turns and was gone into the dark yard once more.

There was a shrill cry from the chestnut and an answering call from the bay. The sound twisted a knife in Slim's guts: the horses were just as much friends as their riders. Alamo stamped forcefully, keyed up to follow his stable-companion. Slim walked over to the door.

Traveller was standing beneath the oak tree at the start of the western ridge trail. Or rather, he had paused there, turning and wheeling on the spot, then venturing down towards the barn again and back to the beginning of the trail. When he saw Slim he stopped dead half way across the yard, lowered his head and snorted out a long breath.

Slim stood absolutely still, waiting to see what would happen next. The horse stepped delicately towards him, clearly poised to dash away at the least provocation. When they were only a few yards apart, Slim began to talk quietly over the continuing sound of the rainfall: "Easy, Traveller … steady now, boy … that's good … steady now …"

Inside the barn, Alamo whickered again and Traveller flung up his head. He backed a few paces away from Slim, then turned and paced very deliberately to the beginning of the trail once more. He halted and stood facing the trail, but looking back at Slim over his shoulder.

"Ok," Slim said, more to himself than anything. "I guess you couldn't make it any clearer if you could talk!"

He dashed back to the house, scribbled a note for Jonesy, raided his medical supplies, grabbed some basic essentials and locked the door behind him. Then he hastened into the barn and saddled Alamo, who was shifting restlessly, ready to go.

Slim extinguished the lantern, led his horse out, pulled the barn door shut and mounted up. He dragged his hat down as firmly as he could and gathered up the reins. "Ok, boys – let's go!" He nudged Alamo with his heels, adding almost to himself: "Although goodness knows what he's managed to get himself into this time!" He couldn't imagine why Jess would loose his unsaddled horse or why he would send him home on his own unless he was in deep, deep trouble.

Traveller lost no time, but surged ahead of them up the trail, as if the darkness made no difference and the treacherous ground beneath his hooves was totally familiar. Slim followed cautiously. It wasn't going to do any good if he lamed Alamo or they had a fall because they had been going too fast in such terrible conditions. When they lagged behind, Traveller would wait, stamping and blowing impatiently. He had had a punishing journey back to the ranch, but, like his owner, he would never give in until the last of his strength was exhausted. For the time being, he was able to lead them onward and upward, going south west all the time.

Eventually they came to the top edge of the lower ranges. Slim automatically ran his eye over the stock huddled here and there in the shelter of trees and lee-hollows in the land. There were more steers than he expected, some of them youngsters. He realized at once that Jess must somehow have moved the last of the herd down and heaved a sigh of great thankfulness, mingled with a desperate worry about what this might have cost his partner. All he could do was to find out. And the only way to do so was to keep following Traveller.

The bay sped ahead of them towards the boundary fence, gathered his haunches under him and, despite the grueling journey he had endured three times, leapt over the gate. Landing on the far side, he turned and waited as Slim rode Alamo after him. Slim leaned down and opened the gate, maneuvering Alamo through and closing it behind him. He could see the deeply gouged hoof-prints where Traveller had already surmounted this obstacle once. Jess was obviously somewhere further up the mountainside.

Slim looked ahead and surveyed the narrow defile and the immense torrent now churning down it. Traveller was standing, poised, on the brink, waiting for the horse and rider to follow him. He had every intention of returning the way he had come.

It was impossible! The force of the debris-laden water, swollen and raging with the accumulation of the night's deluge, was almost enough on its own to break a horse's legs, let alone the treacherous, rocky footing beneath it. Slim drew Alamo to a halt, as he considered what to do next. It was characteristic of him that he did nothing on impulse. Each step was carefully weighed, the consequences prudently thought though. Nothing could be a greater contrast to the impulsive and frequently reckless responses of Traveller's owner.

Slim knew it was possible to reach the head of the defile another and safer way, by following an old mining track as it wound across and up the ridge. It took longer, but, with the tumultuous waters of the storm boiling about the hooves of his mount, he figured it was the best way to rescue Jess from whatever trouble he'd managed to get himself into. He was not sure that Jess's faithful mount would agree and co-operate in this, but he had to try.

He loosed the coiled rope from his saddle-horn, swung it a couple of times and, allowing for the strength and direction of the wind, dropped the noose neatly round Traveller's neck. The bay immediately reared back and, as he landed again, dug in his hooves and lunged against the rope. He was not going to follow quietly, that was for sure.

Slim nudged Alamo with his heels, asking the chestnut to take the strain against his stable companion, but before he could control the situation in any way, Traveller uttered a screaming neigh and charged at them. Only Alamo's swift reaction prevented the furious horse's teeth from connecting with Slim's leg and the flashing iron-shod hooves missed them by a hair's breadth. Slim knew Jess had trained Traveller to fight, but he had never had a more frightening demonstration of what that actually meant!

Alamo spun round swiftly so he was facing his enraged stable-companion. As the two horses confronted each other, Slim was vividly reminded of the times he and Jess had faced each other out over things they violently disagreed about, had even come to blows over.

Now he was in a dilemma. The route up the defile was perilous and there was no way he could be sure either horse would survive it unlamed. On the other hand, Traveller was not going to come quietly if Slim tried to tow him behind Alamo up the safer path against his will.

Slim knew that the horse was highly intelligent and trained to respond to a range of commands. He loosed the strain on the rope, allowing Alamo also to ease his tense stance. After a few minutes, Slim dared to nudge the chestnut closer to the frantic bay and began once more to murmur soothingly.

"Easy, Trav … easy, old fella … stand now … easy … stand still." He was close enough to reach over and loose the noose from around the horse's neck. "Easy, fella … steady now."

The rope came free and he coiled it slowly back onto his saddle, taking care to make no sudden movements. The bay was still strung up, his head flung high, his legs braced, ready to attack or flee at the slightest mistake. Slim continued to make soothing noises, trying to calm the horse down enough to break the deadlock. Alamo stood, rock solid, facing the distraught animal. It was a mirror image of how Slim had so often provided the bed-rock which anchored Jess's wilder impulses.

Alamo stretched out his neck and snorted softly. Traveller gave a shuddering whicker, his head dropping down, his nostrils flaring as he huffed out a reply. Both horses seemed to be breathing together, Alamo steady and calm, Traveller slowly panting less and gradually relaxing.

Slim sat absolutely still, holding his own breath, waiting for the outcome of this equine communication. It might have seemed absurd to anyone who did not know the two horses. But Slim had raised Alamo from a foal and Traveller was as much a part of Jess as his own skin. He waited patiently. Presently, Alamo gave another snort and backed up a few paces. Then, of his own accord, the chestnut turned towards the safer trail. After a few nerve-wracking seconds, the bay followed him quietly.

 **\- # - # - # -**

They were heading for the line shack - Slim was in no doubt at all about that. Once the trail had brought them back to the top of the escarpment, Traveller had surged ahead. He led them at a gallop through the trees and so to the clearing and the hut where they had spent some weeks on and off throughout the summer. Slim remembered the warmth of the lazy evenings which followed a day's grueling work in the heat of the sun – cooling off in the little creek – cooking over an open fire – lounging on the grass watching the brilliant summer stars – sleeping the light and refreshing sleep which comes to those who have spent a day in hard physical labor in the open air and have come to their rest with the satisfaction of knowing that they have done well.

As he pulled up in front of the shack, he prayed Jess had found rest and refuge here.

There was no sign of life. If Jess was inside, he had lit no fire nor light in the louring dawn. Slim thought carefully for some minutes. If Jess was in such a state that he was unable even to keep a fire going, Slim was going to have a challenging situation to deal with and one which might need a considerable amount of time. He could not leave the horses standing outside, exposed to the onslaught of the weather – they needed to be rested and ready if he was ever to get Jess safely back to the ranch-house.

Slim led Alamo into the stable and Traveller followed. When he had unsaddled his horse, Slim caught sight of Jess's saddle lying against the wall and, exactly as it had done Traveller, that single fact convinced him Jess was seriously incapacitated. Nonetheless, he watered the two horses and made sure they had some feed. He was not going to help Jess if they were stranded up here because Slim had neglected the horses.

Then he braced himself mentally and physically. He picked up his saddlebags, strode out of the stable, along the front of the shack, and opened the unlocked door.

The inside of the shack was dim, even in daylight. There was a faint smell of wood-smoke and damp wool. Slim squinted as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, at first seeing nothing because of the table which took up the center of the room. Both beds against the far wall were empty. But the fire had been lighted and still emitted a faint glow.

He skirted the table, heading for the fireplace and, once again, caught his foot in something. It was a saddlebag lying as if it had just been dropped near the fire, the contents scattered across the floor. And in front of the fire there was a dark bundle lying on the bare boards.


	7. Chapter 7

.

.

.

 **7**

.

Slim felt as if his heart had stopped. There was no movement, no sign of life, just stillness and the smell of cold ash and wet wool. _Please God, Jess couldn't be dead already! He had too much stubbornness and endurance and sheer hard, wiry strength .._.

Then he heard the very faintest murmur, a shallow, wheezing breath which scarcely moved the prone man's ribs. Slim dropped to his knees, reaching out to feel the blankets. They were dank and clammy. Seeping from them, blood had formed a dark pool on the boards. _Some kind of injury then, as well as the sickness_.

Jess was so entangled in the sodden blankets that Slim hesitated to move him, even to feel his pulse. All that was really showing was the unruly tangle of dark hair, a sight which cut deeply into Slim because it was all you ever saw of Jess at the beginning of each new day. He reached out a hand again. Jess's hair was soaking wet and in all probability so were his clothes under the shroud of blankets.

The first thing was to get some warmth into the place. They'd left the shack well stocked with firewood and it took only a few minutes for Slim to get a blaze going. He looked around, hoping to find some dry bedding, but there was none. All the available blankets were already round Jess and both their bedrolls were drenched with rain. Slim hastily pushed the table into a corner out of the way and pulled the mattress off one of the beds. It was a good job they had not thrown the stuffing out when closing down the shack. He positioned it as near the fire as he dared, then set about trying to unwrap Jess.

The blankets were wet because the clothes under them were soaking. Jess was still wearing his jacket, although his winter coat was scuffed up under his head. Both were sodden, as were his chaps, pants, shirt and even his underwear. _He must have been out in that storm for hours!_

Slim laid a hand on the back of Jess's neck. He was icy-cold, which was scarcely surprising under such conditions. His breathing was so slow – low and labored as if his lungs were seriously congested. And there was the blood, too. Slim loosened the cocoon of blankets so he could see where it was coming from.

He drew in a sharp breath as he located the injury and saw the long gouge running up the back of Jess's leg. An improvised bandage had helped to stem the flow of blood, but it had slipped or been pulled off, allowing a persistent trickle where it had not clotted. At least it helped to clean the wound, which had certainly been washed with copious amounts of water. Slim got up and retrieved his own saddlebags, opened the medical supplies he had brought and set about treating and bandaging the wound as best he could. When he sloshed iodine over it, Jess did not react or even stir.

Once the leg was treated, the next thing was to get Jess warm again. The fire was going well and giving out a good heat. Slim tipped out the contents of Jess's saddlebags, meager as they were. There was more ammunition than creature-comforts in them and, because of the unfastened flap and the sheer volume of rain, the contents had also become sopping wet. Jess didn't have so much as a pair of drawers which were fit to wear.

"You don't exactly make things easy for yourself, do you?" Slim muttered as he tried to think how to overcome this deficiency. His own outer garments were soaking too, but at least his shirt was relatively dry and warm from the heat of his body.

He methodically stripped off all Jess's clothing, then slid out of his own shirt and put it on Jess. When this was done, he lifted the unconscious man carefully onto the mattress, which, being quite soft, cradled him as he sank into it and would at least keep some of the cold from him. For want of anything better, Slim put the least damp of the blankets over his patient and then turned his attention to drying everything else he could.

After some thought, he dragged the table back and turned it over to form a barrier between the fire and the rest of the cabin. Then he utilized the chairs and the blankets so that the improvised bed was entirely surrounded and the heat of the fire was contained where it could do most good and dry the blankets at the same time. He managed to anchor Jess's damp shirt and underclothes above the fireplace, using some small logs to weigh them down on the shelf over it, in the hope that they would dry more quickly. The rest of the damp clothing he hung on the wall pegs. It would take a good while to dry, but at least it was a start.

All this while, Jess never stirred and his ragged, labored breathing did not change. Slim was almost reeling on his feet too and beginning to shiver in his shirtless state. Having slept precious little and very uneasily, followed by a long, perilous ride through appalling conditions and finally the shock of finding Jess, he was less resilient than usual. Trying to create conditions in which Jess had a chance of surviving had challenged his ingenuity and sapped his energy. He hitched his jacket round his shoulders since he now had no shirt, but was too weary to pull it on fully. He sank down until he was sitting with his back to the table and only its surface kept him propped up. Presently his head began to nod. He slid further down. The soft mattress cushioned him. He was vaguely aware that sharing warmth could save you when the body was struggling to find heat. He stretched out against the damp, prickly blanket. He slept.

 **\- # - # - # -**

 _Where the heck was he_? Slim fought his way to consciousness. His back was cold and his skin itching from contact with a rough blanket. He seemed to be in some improvised tent, with a sleeping body stretched out next to him. Then everything swung back into focus.

The fire was still glowing steadily and under his hands the blanket was damp, rather than clammy. The body – Jess's body! – was not sleeping but unconscious and still breathing those harsh, shallow breaths, with a long interval between each one. Slim laid a hand on the back of his friend's neck. It was much less icy, though still not healthily warm. This was an improvement, but the breathing worried Slim a lot.

He stood up carefully, for he was stiff from lying in an awkward position between the table and his patient and there was not much room in his improvised shelter. Feeling the various damp articles he had been trying to dry, he found that one blanket nearest the fire was comfortingly warm, but Jess's clothing still left a lot to be desired. He pulled off the covering against which he had been lying and wrapped Jess carefully in the warm substitute. Then he rummaged in his own saddlebags for more of the supplies he had taken from Jonesy's medicine cupboard.

A drink of water was the first and most obvious need. Jess's lips were dry and his mouth looked parched. Heaven knew how long it had been since he ate or drank. But attempts to get liquid down him or any of Jonesy's sovereign honey mixture for sore throats just made the struggling breathing even worse.

Knowing that Jess had been stricken with a cough, Slim had made sure he had packed some of the dried herbs Jonesy had concocted for just this purpose. A bucket placed outside the door ensured a plentiful supply of water. He patiently boiled some in a saucepan over the fire and added the herbs. A powerful steam billowed up, filling the air with the scent of lemon verbena, chamomile and bergamot. Slim tossed off his own jacket, lifted Jess into a more upright position and, to encourage the inhalation, draped one of the blankets over them both. Then he hung on as long as he could bear in the hot, moist atmosphere, holding up the dead weight of Jess's unconscious body.

At length, the water cooled and there was no more steam. Slim flicked the blanket away and eased Jess down onto the mattress again. He seemed to be breathing a little more freely and a faint sound escaped his lips. It sent a shock of horror through Slim's heart. Jess's voice whispered like an echo of a mournful wind, pleading: "Jus' lemme die!"

 **\- # - # - # -**

For hours afterwards, Slim tended the fire and his patient, praying fervently that Jess would not get his wish.

He repeated the steam treatment at intervals, spacing them as evenly as he could, and each time there seemed to be a very slight improvement in his patient's breathing. He carefully moistened the sick man's lips and tongue, letting a tiny trickle of water run down his throat. Jess could barely swallow. His throat seemed swollen and the skin under his jaw was tight and hard. As the blankets dried, Slim was able to keep wrapping him in one which was warm and gradually his body temperature began to approach normal. Slim heaved a sigh of relief. He seemed to have been doing the same things for so long without result. Now, as evening began to close down, he had hope. He pulled on his jacket once more, leaned back against the table and let his body slump.

Slim came to himself slowly, feeling as if he was suffocating in a furnace. He had never intended to nod off again, but somehow the fatigue of intense strain had overcome him and he slid down onto the mattress as he had before. Then he had been cold and damp. Now he was so hot, unbelievably hot! He struggled upright, trying to work out why.

The fire had bedded down and was glowing steadily and evenly, the warmth well contained by the enclosed area which Slim had constructed. But it was nowhere near hot enough to make Slim feel it so vividly. He realized that the heat was coming from the unconscious body against which he had been lying. Jess had gone from freezing to fever point. Sweat was pouring off him and his breathing was very much shallower and far more rapid than it had been. He was restless, too, tossing and twitching feebly, as if trying to escape from something.

Alarmed, Slim sprang up and pulled the blanket from round the feverish man. He hastily pushed the table back and dragged the mattress on which Jess was resting away from the fire. It had been a good idea to contain the warmth, but now it was only going to drive up Jess's temperature even more. At the same time, Slim didn't want his patient lying in the icy draft from the door and windows, even if it would cool him down. After some thought, he decided that the bed would be the best option. One mattress remained in position, so he picked Jess up and carried him over to it.

Lying flat made Jess's breathing worse. Slim rolled up the remaining bedding and used it to prop him up. It seemed to help a little, but not much. Jess was panting and shaking, his body burning but, at the same time, shivering as if he was still really cold. Slim fetched a pan of tepid water from the fire and used one of the bandannas to sponge him down. This seemed to help too, but again – not much! The only encouraging sign was that when he moistened the sick man's lips, Jess sucked eagerly at the cloth. Slim tried trickling some water into his mouth, but Jess gulped furiously, so desperate that he choked on the small amount he was able to swallow. This did not help matters either as it cause a violent paroxysm of coughing. Slim went back to patiently feeding him a few drops at a time, using the wet cloth. It took a long while, but at last he was satisfied that Jess's thirst had been quenched somewhat. Certainly it seemed to help his breathing and he stopped straining to drink and lay quietly, though not peacefully.

Suddenly Jess's eyes flashed open. He looked directly at Slim, but did not seem to recognize him. He whispered hoarsely, "Lemme go!"

Slim shook his head, but before he could reply, Jess's face was contorted with agony and he pleaded: "Gotta get … to 'em … get 'em out! Open the window … smash it! Don't hold on t'me or it'll be too late!" He lunged upright, struggling to get out of the bed.

"Easy! Calm down!" Slim pleaded, grabbing the frantic man by the shoulders. "Lie still. You're not going anywhere."

His touch just seemed to make the situation worse. Jess fought furiously against his grip, his strength driven by the power of delirium. "I've got to! Y' can't stop me!" He was so obsessed by the hallucinations plaguing his mind he nearly knocked Slim to the floor. Only the fact that Slim threw his whole body weight across his patient prevented Jess from rising and pursuing whatever course his nightmare suggested.

Then, all at once, it seemed to be over or at least Jess appeared to be too exhausted to fight any more. He went limp and racking coughs shook him again, adding to the shuddering of the fever. Slim sat up cautiously, gradually releasing the constraining pressure in response to Jess's need to breath.

After that, for a while, all was still. Jess was quiescent, as if he had given up his attempt to escape. Slim sponged him down again and wiped away the sweat which was running down his forehead and dripping into his eye-sockets. He pulled up one of the chairs and sat beside the bed, ready to do whatever was needed for as long as it was needed. He had no idea of the time. The last vestiges of daylight had faded and the icy rain continued to fall relentlessly. Slim felt as if he was suspended in time, existing only within the four walls of the shack, while everything real faded away into the enclosing gloom.

"I'll kill you for this!" Piercing blue eyes, mad with rage, locked with his.

A sledgehammer-blow, powered by hate and fear and overwhelming anger, struck Slim on the jaw. The force knocked him off the chair and sent him flying. His head hit the table-leg. Darkness took him.

.

* * *

.

Notes: For the plot of this story, it is assumed that the conversations in _Fathers' Night_ have not taken place.


	8. Chapter 8

.

.

.

 **8**

.

Jess was capable of packing a devastating punch and this was no exception. Whatever was going on in his mind had driven him into one of his incandescent rages, in which practically nothing would stop him. It was several minutes before Slim began to come round and more time elapsed until he was able to drag himself to his feet and assess the situation.

The cabin door was swinging wildly in the wind, the lamp was swaying dangerously in the draft and billows of smoke were being driven into the atmosphere. The place was completely empty. There was no sign of Jess, but every sign that he had pulled on some clothes and his boots. This and the open door meant only one thing – he was determined to escape and would let nothing stand between him and freedom.

Slim's head was throbbing painfully from the combined effects of the punch, hitting his head on the table and the sheer stress of all he had been through. In a blur of unreality, he had heard the sound of galloping hooves.

He raced to the door and was in time to see Traveller burst from the stable, Jess riding bareback with only a bridle. Horse and rider swiftly disappeared into the swirling rain.

Slim grabbed his long coat and hat, then his rifle, which he hoped he would not have to use. It might be that a well-placed shot was the only thing which would stop Jess. He hoped not, but he had to be prepared. In the stable he hastened to saddle Alamo properly – there was a chance he could rope either horse or rider, but not without the saddle-horn. As soon as could be he too was galloping into the darkness.

The ground was so wet that Jess's trail was easy to follow. He was heading south west again, still further up into the mountains, on a narrow track which was not much more than a path. It twisted and turned, the ground uneven and criss-crossed with tree-roots. Patches of scree and shale were scattered across it where the precipitous slopes loomed above. There was a fearful drop through the trees on the left side. Visibility was only a few feet and everything was shrouded in night and mist.

Jess continued at a flat out gallop, regardless of the conditions. Traveller was sure-footed as a goat and had an uncanny ability to keep his balance, but he was being driven furiously, with a recklessness which seemed insane, even for Jess. It was only a matter of time before disaster struck.

The fleeing horse and rider were drawing away from their pursuers. No matter how badly Slim wanted to catch up, he could not ride Alamo with the same disregard for safety: the risk of injury was too great. So he breathed a sigh of relief when the track widened out and he could see the pair ahead for more than a few seconds.

The trail at this point plunged down into a deep hollow. The ground was treacherous - water-logged and steep and covered with patches of loose stones. Tired as he was after all the journeys he had made to and from the line shack, Traveller was beginning to flag. As they started down the slope, he stumbled and slipped, pitching forward and sending Jess flying over his head. The horse made a valiant effort to avoid his fallen rider, but the impetus was too great. Traveller struck Jess's leg as he slid down into the bottom of the hollow. His rider rolled after him in a small avalanche of dislodged stones. The horse scrambled to his hooves and stood, head hung low, panting and blowing, his nostrils distended and foam dripping from his lips. Jess lay motionless in the churned up stones and mud.

Slim bit back a cry as he urged Alamo down into the hollow. _Surely the fever and exposure were causing Jess enough suffering without this accident too?_ The fact that it was entirely the result of Jess's lunatic behavior did not matter. All that mattered now was how to get him safely back to the line shack.

The two horses huddled together when Slim dismounted, almost as if Alamo were trying to comfort and support his stable companion. "Stay!" Slim told them firmly. He'd dropped Alamo's reins and knew he would stand still, but Traveller was highly distressed and he wanted to make sure the horse, confused and battered as he must be, understood what was required of him.

Kneeling down in the mud, Slim pushed away the stones which were partly covering Jess's body. Bruises were already beginning to show where he had been hit by them in his fall. His right leg was bent at a painful angle, but he did not stir when Slim gently pulled his body straight. Slim felt along the leg and found what he had been dreading – the old break, which continued to give Jess problems from time to time, had been damaged again. The good thing was that there was no bone protruding nor could Slim see any bleeding. But it was going to be impossible to get Jess onto his horse, even if he had been conscious enough to stay there. And Slim had no means of knowing what frame of mind Jess would be in when he did regain his senses. There was also no easy way to get him out of the hollow.

Presently, Slim led the two horses to the top of the slope and told them to stay again. He would need their strength to carry Jess back, but first he had to devise some means of transporting him in a way which would not further damage his leg. Fortunately there was plenty of wood around. He found two reasonably straight pieces to make the improvised splint and sacrificed his own muddy shirt, that Jess was wearing, which he tore into strips to make the binding. Then Slim rolled Jess into his own coat, fastened it tightly around him and added a couple of rope bindings to both secure and restrain him. This done, he carried Jess laboriously and carefully up the slope to the horses. The footing was so bad it was a hellish task and he had to stop several times, fighting to stay on his feet, but eventually he made it to the top without falling himself or dropping Jess.

Some more foraging produced two stout branches between which he constructed a webbing of rope, capable of supporting a man's body. He lifted Jess onto this improvised stretcher, before lining the horses up, Alamo at the head and Traveller behind at the foot. Then he used the remains of his rope to fasten the poles securely to Alamo's stirrups and, by an improvised harness, to Traveller.

It took over an hour to transport Jess back along the route he had covered in just a few minutes. Slim dared not hurry. The swaying and jolting of the stretcher was impossible to avoid, however carefully the well-trained horses stepped, and every sudden movement made him afraid it would exacerbate the damage to Jess's leg, despite the splint. Occasionally Jess gave a low groan, totally uncharacteristic of him, but otherwise he might have been lifeless; the fury which had driven him on such a wild ride was spent, at least for the moment.

And it did not stop raining. It was uncanny. Slim could almost imagine some evil had provoked a second flood and they were to be new Noahs. At least, he hoped they were. Such weather was so unprecedented that it felt distinctly like divine retribution.

They were both soaked to the skin again by the time they made it back to the line shack. Slim's first concern was to carry Jess inside. Once he had deposited him back on the bed, Slim hesitated. _What if Jess took it into his head to try to get away again_? He was ill enough not realize the damage to his leg and hellfire-stubborn enough to ignore it if he could. Slim left him as he was, wrapped up in his own coat and firmly tied. He went out to settle the horses.

Then it was all to do again, just as if he had not spent the whole day trying to keep his partner from the edge of death. He released Jess from the makeshift restraints and stripped off his clothes once more. Now, though, all their clothes were wringing wet. It was fortunate the blankets had dried because they were all either of them had to wear. Not that Jess needed wrapping up – the fever had come back with a vengeance and his rising temperature would soon make even one blanket too much. Slim never thought he would long for the luxury of linen sheets, but he did now! He concentrated on more sponging and the slow trickling of water into his patient's mouth. Jess still seemed to be swallowing by reflex, which gave Slim a glimmer of hope. No-one can live long without water.

No-one can go on for ever without food either. Wearily Slim found some bread and cheese in his saddlebag and forced himself to eat. He decided against brewing up coffee, not at this juncture anyway: it was a sure-fire way to get Jess back to consciousness and he was probably better off as he was. In Jess's saddle-bag he had found the little flask of whiskey. He considered it for some time, but put it to one side: the need might get greater for either of them. He sat huddled in his own blanket beside the fire until his energy returned to something like normal levels.

Then he methodically hung up all the wet clothes around the fire once more. After this, he set about finding some better pieces of wood to replace the branches and gingerly rebound a firmer, stronger splint to the damaged leg, using some of the bandages he had brought with him. He was so tired that it almost made him laugh to think he'd brought plenty of them because you could pretty well rely on Jess needing bandaging sooner or later.

Slim pulled a chair up beside the bed, making sure he had water for drinking and more for the inevitable sponging within arm's reach. He sat and kept watch.

He had no idea how late it was. The night seemed to go on interminably. The unceasing rain poured down. Random gusts of wind suddenly pounded the building. Long periods of stillness were filled only with the steady susurration of falling water. Unexpected drops penetrating the chimney caused the fire to splutter and hiss without warning. There was a smell of wood-smoke and wet wool and sweat and the indefinable, unmistakable scent of sickness – and of blood!

Slim pulled off the blanket and, sure enough, the exertion of the ride had set the long cut on Jess's leg bleeding again, enough eventually to soak through the bandage. He sighed and went over to his saddlebag to find more, which he added over the ones he had already put on. Jonesy had taught him not to disturb wounds unless really necessary and he hoped that the flow would eventually clot. Finishing the job, he straightened up and looked down at his partner with a kind of wry, affectionate amusement: "You couldn't just be ill or break a leg or slice yourself open, could you? Oh no! You have to go and do all three at once!"

"What?" Jess shifted restlessly, mumbling some incoherent words into the improvised pillow.

"Jess, it's me … Slim – you're safe – it's going to be Ok!" Slim was determined to make that true. But it was the worst possible thing he could have said, for it seemed to precipitate Jess straight back into the nightmare.

"Lemme go! Y' can't stop me! I gotta go back!" His arm swung violently across the bed, as if seeking to sweep away some clutching hand. "Gotta … get … in there!" and again he tried to shout: "Break the window!" but his voice was hoarse, rasping in his throat as he struggled to breathe, and choked with unshed tears.

Slim was appalled. He had no idea what Jess was dreaming about, but whatever it was, it was causing him terrible pain. The worst of it was that no touch could comfort him – the mere feel of a human hand was part of his fear and anger. Slim had never felt so helpless. But fortunately the violence of his speech robbed Jess of what little energy he had and he fell back, wheezing and sucking breath after painful breath into his laboring lungs.

Sweat was pouring off him, both from the fever and from the burning effort he had made. Slim gently and delicately mopped it away, trying hard not to impose any pressure which might feel like a restraint. He wondered briefly if Jess was reliving his experiences in the prison camp, but somehow it did not sound like it. This was much more concerned with Jess's own actions and seemed to come straight from his heart.

That heart was racing uncontrollably. Slim could see the pulse of it beating frantically in Jess's throat as his breathing labored on. It seemed as if his entire body was hurtling towards death in the same way in which he had ridden wildly through the night. He wanted to die, Slim was sure of it. _But why? What could possibly have caused such a feeling in someone who lived each moment so vividly and immediately, who rose to challenges with utter determination and revelled in celebration with a spontaneous and exuberant sense of fun?_ Slim felt as if some dark thing was lurking forebodingly in the shadows of the cabin as he struggled to help his friend hold on to the life he seemed determined to throw away.

"Go 'way. Don't look at me." Jess tried to turn his face to the wall, but the pain of his leg obviously stopped him. He flung an arm across his face instead and remained almost motionless, except for the shivering of his skin, for a long time.

Slim thought he might have fallen asleep or lapsed back into unconsciousness. He was soon undeceived. Jess let his arm fall away from his face, then began laboriously to lever himself into a sitting position. The expression on his face was so desperate that Slim could not help putting an arm round him and easing him up. But Jess struggled against the touch, forcing his helper to let go, as he continued doggedly to drive his body to obey his stubborn will.

When he was finally sitting, half propped up against the wall, Jess's eyes opened once more. They were so dark with pain and desolation that they were almost black. He looked straight ahead as if he saw something miles away with a dreadful clarity. He began to speak slowly, each statement punctuated with hard-won breath.

"Should never've stopped here."

"Wrong t' trust me."

"I let them all die."

"Betrayed them. Betrayed you."

"Now this little 'un too!"

"I should'a died then. Gotta die now. Can't live with it any longer."

Jess's voice stumbled to a choked halt. Slim found his own voice strangled by the horror which he could see and hear Jess reliving. He could neither speak nor move nor reach into this nightmare world. It was as if something had stopped time, frozen and trapped them forever in this moment. The fist of an inescapable darkness clenched round them both, crushing everything good and sane.

Suddenly Jess seemed to return to himself, although every fibre of his body was still strung with tension. He said very softly but vehemently, as if pleading with an enemy: "No! Catherine – you can't! Don't do it - you can't – please!"

Before Slim could say or do anything, Jess's agonised eyes looked directly at him and he whispered:

"She killed the child. She killed our son."


	9. Chapter 9

.

.

.

 **9**

.

Utter darkness came down. Slim could not see or hear or feel. Horror possessed him and piercing, clawing pain like barbs driven into his heart. He was oblivious of anything except the shock and torment of those words.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard movement and the sound of an agonized moan. Then there was silence.

When, at last, Slim opened his eyes, Jess had turned over with his face to the wall. His shoulders were shaking and heaving, not just with the effort to breathe, but because he was wracked by silent, heartbroken tears.

Slim stared at him as if he had never seen him before. He could not think. He could not process the meaning of what he had heard. He felt as if the words had been aimed directly at him, at his barely healed feelings, at his costly admission that he had been fooled, rejected and tossed aside.

 _While he had been lying in that attic … while Bradley's thugs had tortured him … while Catherine had mercilessly interrogated him … she … and Jess …_

Red rage surged through him, a fire burning in his brain and blinding his eyes and breaking out in overwhelming violence. He was no longer in control of his actions but was driven by a savage and instinctive urge to kill. Nothing and no-one could come between him and his revenge. Nothing except the painful hiss of indrawn breath and the faintest of groans as lungs struggled for breath.

Slim's eyes flew open. He was kneeling by the bed. His hands were round Jess's throat. His hands were choking the life out of a helpless man.

The strength of his anger and his jealousy astounded him. He had never been so furiously angry in his whole life. And bitterly, bitterly jealous. He knew now what Catherine was like. He knew the veneer of charm and beauty was a cover for cruel, ruthless egotism. But he had loved her deeply and sincerely. That she should turn to Jess so quickly, without the least qualm or care, while Slim was still a prisoner in the house, while she knew he was alive – the thought was like a poisonous gall which he was forced to swallow. He had been courteous, gentle, patiently courting the woman he loved and wanted to marry. But Jess had had no scruples about seizing that hard-won intimacy, no hesitation about making himself welcome in Catherine's bed.

Slim wanted to kill Jess. But he could not do it with his bare hands. It was a good job there were no weapons immediately to hand. He surged to his feet and stumbled across the cabin, searching for his gun or some other means of retribution. As he did so, the absurdity of his own situation, wrapped as he was only in a blanket, struck him as if mocking laughter were ridiculing him in reality. And hard upon that came the realization of how far his rage had led him.

Angrily, he grabbed his damp clothes and struggled back into them. He did not kill. He did not kill anyone without a very good reason. Still less did he kill the sick and injured, who could not defend themselves. However terrible his feelings, he would not do that. Not even to Jess. Not even after what he had done.

But he could not bear to stay. He would go. Leave Jess to fend for himself. To live or die according to what fate dealt him. It was no less than he deserved!

He looked at fire. _Should he leave it or put it out?_ If he left it with enough fuel to last the night, but unattended, there was a good chance that the building might catch fire. If he put it out, the temperature would drop to near freezing. Jess would die either way. It was just as bad as killing him with his own hands.

He looked at his hands, at the long, strong fingers, capable of wrestling a steer or strangling the life out of a man. He thought of the times he'd grabbed Jess and tried to shake some sense into him. Jess was senseless now, in more ways than one. He wanted to die and, mentally, Slim was quite willing to let him. Except that he'd spent the whole night trying to prevent just this and when it came to the act, he simply could not do it, whatever means he used.

He stood starting at the fire. The deep amber of the glowing logs was not as dark as Catherine's hair. He remembered the first time he had seen her …

 **\- s - c - s -**

… That beautiful hair was the first thing he'd noticed, catching his eye the minute he entered the crowded drawing room. He was mesmerized by the shimmering colors reflecting the light of the blazing fire. He could not see the woman, only the long, bright fall of her hair, which she was wearing loosely caught with a narrow gold band, embellished with tawny stones.

"You must meet your cousin." His uncle, Nathaniel Sherman, took him by the elbow and steered him through the crowd. They were heading for the fireplace. Slim found that his throat was tight and for some reason his heart was racing with unaccountable nervousness.

"Catherine, my dear!"

The woman with the burnished chestnut hair turned slightly and glanced over her shoulder as Nathaniel attracted her attention. It was immediately obvious from her smile of greeting, and the way she quickly abandoned the conversation in which she had been engaged, that Slim had attracted her attention even more.

"I'd like you to meet my kinsman, Matthew Sherman, my dear. The two of you are distantly related somehow, but 'cousin' is probably not the way to describe it." Nathaniel was smiling genially at the two young people.

The woman with glowing hair was facing Slim. He saw a tall, slender young lady, stunningly beautiful, with exquisitely smooth, creamy skin and grey eyes, dressed in a simple but elegant gold gown which set off her wonderful hair. He found himself bowing over her hand and almost stammering as he murmured a greeting.

Slim could never recall what he ate at that first meal, despite having a healthy appetite after the long journey from Laramie. He was not seated near Catherine, of course. She was at the foot of the long table, he at the other end nearer his uncle, but, as far as Slim was concerned, there was no-one else in the room. He watched her beautiful face, her serene smile and the graceful gestures she made as she conversed with those around her or gave orders to the servants. He had no idea what he said to his own neighbors, who might just as well have been in Europe and speaking another language for all the sense they made.

When the excellent but interminable meal was over, he was forced to remain with the other men for brandy and cigars, neither of which were to Slim's personal taste. But at last they re-joined the ladies and he was able to continue worshiping from afar. There was certainly no chance of more conversation with the woman of his dreams, since she was surrounded by those who knew her better and had the right of prior acquaintance. Slim consoled himself that he was staying in the house and none of the other men flocking round her were. He fended off the attentions of a number of interested females of assorted ages. His whole attention was focused on one woman, his distant cousin, and her beauty, and his fervent desire to be alone with her. But for this he had to wait until the morrow.

At breakfast, he had Catherine's undivided attention. He was the only guest. Indeed the only other person at the table, besides his uncle, was his uncle's agent, Reuben Bradley, a thin, dark man of about Slim's own age, impeccably dressed for life in the city. Slim did not take much notice of him or of his expression: it might have been better if he had, but he could gaze at only one of his dining companions. He would not have noticed if a stampeding herd of buffalo had run through the room. But buffalo and steers and all the rough, demanding labor of life on the ranch were not to be found in St. Louis, or at any rate, not in his uncle's house and in the presence of its mistress. Uninterrupted leisure was certainly going to be a change for Slim, but one which he embraced as readily as he would like to have done his hostess!

That first morning, Catherine set out to show him the charms of St. Louis. She also set out to use her own charms to enchant him. It was hardly necessary. She was the most beautiful, cultured, intelligent woman he had ever met. As they strolled leisurely through the city, Slim was delighted to find she could converse thoughtfully about the books she had read and art exhibitions she had visited. She promised to take him to the musical events which enlivened evenings in the city and to introduce him, as she put it, 'to the best society'.

Society was the last thing on Slim's mind. He was content just to be in her presence, to go wherever she went, to offer her his uttermost attention and devotion. Soon he was her only escort: the young men who always flocked around her were dismissed without any apparent thought and Catherine appeared to reciprocate his single-minded devotion. They drove out together every morning, ate every meal together and were inseparable at the numerous social gatherings to which Catherine had entree. Every night they sat by the fire together until it was time to seek rest.

The only time Slim insisted on being alone was when he wrote to Andy, which he did regularly and frequently, sharing the new experiences he was having in this flourishing city. He mentioned meeting Catherine, describing her as a remote second cousin, beautiful and charming, and said they enjoyed being together, but nothing more. He had confided in Catherine, as their relationship became ever more intimate, his devotion to Andy, his love of his brother and his deep sense of responsibility for him. She obviously felt a little affronted because this other love took his attention from her, even for an hour, but graciously consented just to tease him that anyone else could have a place in his affections. So Slim did not mention Jess. A friendship so deep and powerful was bound to make Catherine feel threatened. Besides, you do not spend time telling the woman you love about another man, still less one with Jess's wayward charm and untamed good-looks, which were exceeding attractive to pretty well every woman whose path he crossed. But the friendship between the two men was deep and full of trust. As Slim's relationship with Catherine developed, he had written to Jess, a single letter in which he poured out his feelings and his growing passion for the woman of his dreams and communicated the real seriousness of this relationship by admitting that, in respect of marriage: 'the pastor has ruled that consanguinity is no impediment'.

This letter was written after he had proposed to Catherine and been accepted. He had taken her for a long drive and found a secluded spot by the river, where they spread out rugs and a picnic, and where they had the world, it seemed, to themselves. There, in the cool shadows of the overhanging trees, Slim had fallen to his knees and asked her to be his wife and to return with him to Laramie. Catherine had accepted without the slightest hesitation and he had placed an engagement ring on her finger. It seemed nothing could possibly touch the joy of their love that day.

It was curious that he never questioned her suitability as the wife of a hard-working and none too financially secure rancher. Slim was deeply romantic, but he was also essentially practical and almost invariably operated on the basis of sound reasoning. It said much for Catherine's allure and seductive power that such considerations never entered his mind, unless it was to feel faintly uneasy because they had not discussed Jess. After all, Jess was an integral part of the family and was not going to move on just because Slim brought a wife home – or at any rate, Slim hoped not. Jonesy, of course, also needed to be considered, but Slim knew, with the assurance of the old cook's long devotion, that he would accept this development as inevitable and appropriate. But Catherine had revealed, quite in passing, her deep dislike of Texas and its inhabitants. Slim had no notion of how he was going to deal with this, but in the euphoria of her acceptance and his uncle's blessing, he felt the rightness of this union would overcome any difficulties. Catherine was to be his, and that was all which really mattered.

Catherine was indeed his, in body as well as mind. Slim was never sure quite how it happened. He had wooed Catherine with all the adoration and respect that he could give, controlling the power of his passion by his innate courtesy and sense of responsibility. However much he wanted this woman, he was content to wait until they were legally man and wife.

One night, they had been sitting in the library, lit only by the flickering firelight, sharing a last night-cap before retiring. Catherine was curled up on the rug before the fire, leaning trustingly against his knees as he sat in one of the big arm-chairs. She had a glass of lemonade in her hand. She never drank alcohol, even at dinner parties – or at least, Slim had never seen her do so. Presently she put down her own glass, reached up and took his empty one from him, before rising gracefully to her feet to bring him a refill of whiskey. Slim protested, rather halfheartedly. It was the third time she had refilled it. He was not a heavy drinker, but her solicitous care for his pleasure was hard to resist.

"You see, you do want another!" she told him mischievously, in her lowest and most sultry tones.

This time, instead of sitting on the floor, she sank down on to the arm of his chair. He was vividly aware of the thin silk of her dress and warmth of the slender body it enclosed. Catherine raised her hands and pulled at the pins holding up the elaborate hair-style she had created for the evening reception they had just attended. The silken curtain of her hair rippled down with an almost audible hiss, cloaking them both as if to keep them from prying eyes. The subtle perfume which always lingered about her became suddenly intense, overwhelming. Her arms circled him sensuously as her head bent towards his. The kiss was inevitable and welcome. But the chaste kisses they had exchanged until now had never been infused with such passion.

It was as if some madness has seized them both, sending uncontrollable desire swirling through their veins. When they broke apart, Catherine whispered: "Not here!"

Slim gathered her into his arms, rose and carried her from the room. In that instant, the flames of passion burned fiercer than any fire.

 **\- s - c - s –**

He was staring into the fire. His eyes hurt. He felt dizzy, sick and ashamed.

He had fallen so utterly in love with Catherine from the first moment he set eyes on her! How could he blame Jess for doing the same? In his grief for Slim, would it not be natural for Jess to seek consolation with the woman he knew Slim loved? Very few men would be immune to her beauty, still less her seductive power. Slim had no illusions about the fact, either, that very few women would resist the appeal of Jess's unique blend of mischievous charm and wild, dangerous grace. And Jess was a man, like any other – not likely to refuse the same invitation to which Slim himself had succumbed so readily.

Slim heaved in a long, harsh breath. If Jess had fallen in love with Catherine, his mood when he finally came home to the ranch suddenly made sense. It must have hurt him deeply to leave her, but because he had an innate sense of justice and an unmatchable, generous loyalty he would not put such a relationship above his partnership with Slim. It must have cut him to the raw to find out that Catherine had been party to Slim being tortured. Seeing Jess's suffering when he had finally returned to the ranch, Slim had sworn to help, to give the time and care and patience it was going to take to heal such unseen injuries.

 _Was he going to do any less now?_

 _Now - when Jess knew that his own son had died in such a terrible way?_

Slim had been saved from almost certain death because he trusted Jess absolutely. He had legally declared that trust in his will and in the affirmation of Jess's place in the family of the relay station.

 _He trusted Jess then. He would go on trusting him now. Whatever the pain for them both. Whatever the outcome of this devastating news._

 _He had sworn that when Jess needed help, whatever it might be, he would be there and ready._

 _He would not break his word!_

 _._

* * *

.

Notes: Historically, marriage between cousins was permitted and, in some communities, quite common. There is, for instance, nothing in the 1662 Prayer Book 'Tables of Kindred and Affinity' prohibiting such marriages. The law has changed considerably from late 19th Century and, in the USA, also differs between states.


	10. Chapter 10

.

.

.

 **10**

.

Slim turned away from the fire and forced himself to move back towards the bed. It was one thing to swear he would not break his word – it was a much harder thing than he could possibly have imagined to make himself move physically from the place where he was ready and willing to kill his treacherous friend to the space where he would help and heal him if he could.

But the truth was at the core of Slim's heart. He knew the brotherhood he shared with Jess was deeper than blood, deeper than any passion either of them had for a woman, deep enough to carry them both through the heartaches and torments of life as well as the good times of fun and laughter and easy comradeship.

Now he had to make good that truth.

He stood looking down. Jess was still lying with his face towards the wall, but his twisted body and the tortured expression which convulsed his features did not suggest he was resting peacefully. His face was so pale that it seemed impossible he had ever seen the sun and a glimmering sheen of sweat lay over his skin. His lean frame was shaken by involuntary tremors and it was clear that the fever, exacerbated by all the physical and mental trauma he had endured, was now almost overwhelming him. His mind was set on death and his body was set to obey.

"You are not going to die!"

It was a statement as much for Slim himself as for Jess. But it was all too easy to make. If Jess was not going to die, Slim had to get him to better medical care than he himself could render and do so immediately. This presented its own problems. He could not carry Jess back to the ranch, with only two horses as transport and such evil weather to travel through. A wagon was needed. But he dare not leave Jess unattended while he went and fetched the necessary transport. Given his recent performance and not withstanding his broken leg, Jess was quite capable of escaping from the line shack and driving himself onward on whatever trail of separation he had fixed in his obsessed mind.

"I'm sorry about this, part'ner," Slim said softly.

He retrieved the ropes he had used to tie Jess to the improvised stretcher and once more secured them, this time binding the injured man to the bed. As he did so, Jess struggled feverishly against the restraints. It cut Slim to the heart, knowing how much Jess hated being confined or restrained and how deep at the core of his being true freedom of action lay. But there was no other way. He could not risk leaving the shack to get help, only to return and find Jess missing and a hopeless search through unforgiving territory to make again.

When he was sure the sick man could not move from his bed, Slim took thought on how to summon help. After some minutes of consideration, he tore a strip from the remains of his shirt and found a stub of charcoal from the fire to write with.

 _Jess sick + injured leg. Need wagon. Most western line shack. S._

He emptied one of Jess's saddlebags and put the message inside to protect it from the elements. Then he went out in to the unrelenting storm. He saddled Alamo and put the bridle on Traveller. He hitched the saddlebag to the improvised harness he had used to transport Jess, so that it lay across the bay's chest. This unusual arrangement would be certain to attract immediate attention from anyone finding the horse. There was nothing more he could do. He had to rely on Traveller's intelligence and fortitude to deliver the message and rouse those at the relay station to bring help.

He mounted his chestnut and rode back down the old trail, leading Traveller beside him. When, eventually, they came to the gate between the ranges, Slim opened it and rode both horses through. He dismounted and led Traveller a short way down the slope towards the relay station. It was an act of total faith to believe that the bay would understand what he wanted. But he knew too how close the bond was between Jess and Traveller - a powerful force which equaled the one between Slim and Jess themselves. Somehow Slim believed Traveller would understand the urgency of the situation and that the horse was intelligent enough to know the help they needed must come from the relay station.

Traveller stood braced, his ears pricked almost until they touched, and every muscle primed for flight or fight. Alamo snorted gently. The bay relaxed somewhat and turned his bright-eyed attention to Slim.

"Go home!" The command was uttered with all the conviction and encouragement Slim could muster.

"Home!" he repeated as he used his grip on the bridle to turn Traveller's head away from him to the slopes below.

Alamo gave an encouraging whicker. Traveller tossed his head as Slim pulled off the bridle and let him go, at the same time urging the horse onward with an encouraging push. "Go home!"

The bay swerved away from them, his hooves sending up a swirl of mud as he vanished into the drifting veils of rain which were scarcely lightened by the advent of the day. Slim turned Alamo and rode swiftly back to the shack. There was nothing else he could do except keep Jess alive until help arrived.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Andy and Jonesy, meanwhile, had arrived back at the relay station on the morning of the previous day. Straightaway, Jonesy had found Slim's hasty note, left in the kitchen when he had ridden out to follow Traveller into the night. The old cook had stood for some moments, his brow wrinkled in thought as he worked out the best he could do to prepare for whatever catastrophe had befallen Jess. It was obvious something drastic had happened by the mere fact that Jess had sent Traveller back loose to the ranch, in the middle of the night, and Slim had decided to back-trail the horse. With characteristic down-to-earth practicality, Jonesy did not waste time wondering what had happened or how it would end. He had entire faith in Slim's ability to find and retrieve Jess – possibly spitting fire and scowling up a thundercloud and fiercely resenting that anyone had the temerity to rescue him! At home and right now, the task was to be ready for all eventualities, as far as this was humanly possible.

He was standing motionless in the kitchen when Andy bounded in through the back door, scattering water in every direction. It was still raining. Andy halted abruptly, his excitement curbed by Jonesy's expression.

"What's up, Jonesy?" he demanded. "Alamo and Traveller have both gone and it looks as if the stage drivers have been changing the teams themselves. The barn's in a real mess!"

Jonesy recollected himself with an involuntary shiver. But he did not believe in hiding the truth, any more than Slim did. "It's a bigger mess than just the barn, Andy," he told the boy seriously. "Traveller came back loose, without his harness. Slim's gone to look for Jess."

A matching shudder ran through Andy. He had so recently suffered the agony of grief for his loss of Slim and, even though it had not been permanent, it had left a scar which needed time to heal. In addition, he had still not entirely come to terms with Jess's disguise during the rescue, even though he knew it was just a part he had to play because there was no other way. Despite being so shaken by Jess's assumed character, this was something he had never discussed with Slim, because all he wanted was for his brother to be able to return to the normality of their life. He felt, justifiably, that the foundations of his world had been rocked and, young as he was, he realized that they were all having to re-established the deep roots of relationship which gave them stability and security. Now for something to happen to Jess was just too terrible to contemplate.

But Andy was a Sherman and, no matter how he hero-worshiped Jess, his patterns of behavior were modeled on Slim and their father. He drew a deep breath and Jonesy was proud of him when his first comment was: "What can we do get ready for them? I guess something bad must have happened …" His voice faltered for an instant, then he went on strongly: "Tell me what I can help with."

Jonesy patted him hard on the shoulder. "Can y' get the barn into some kind of order and the teams sorted out for the rest of the day?" When Andy nodded, he went on: "I'll make up the beds in the guest room. Y' can't doctor a man in the top bunk."

"Jess'll go mad before he lets any medicine get near him," Andy joked bravely.

"Yeah!" Jonesy admitted. "Good job we've got Slim t'hold him down then, ain't it?" He winked at Andy and received a wink in return, because both of them knew just exactly what an awkward patient Jess could be.

"Guess if we're lucky he won't need to," Andy added hopefully.

Jonesy was pretty sure they were not going to be lucky, but he gave Andy another pat and a gentle push in the direction of the door. "Guess maybe we may be," he agreed. "Now git on out there and stay under cover while y' can. Can't recall when we last had weather like this – must have had three years rain is as many days - but we have t' keep everything goin'. Don't bother with the paddocks, just get as many inside as we've room for and make sure they're fed and watered."

"I know! I know!" Andy retorted. _Goodness knows, he'd been helping with stages from the time Slim took on the franchise!_ "Leave it to me! I can do it, if it takes me all morning."

The door slammed behind him, but it was the gale, not temper. "That's the idea," Jonesy murmured, as he began to take sheets, blankets and quilts to make up the beds in the small back bedroom which they kept for the occasional overnight guest.

They both worked hard for the rest of the day. Jonesy helped Andy outside as far as his back allowed and spent the rest of the time preparing as much food as he could, just in case. An injured Harper could easily also be a starving Harper – he was used to dealing with both! Word had got down the stage route the previous day that all was not well at the relay station. Slim was justly popular for the excellent efficiency of the servicing he provided and Jess had equally made a mark with his humor, his skill with horses and his sheer hard work. The stage drivers and guards were ready and willing to lend a hand once they understood the situation.

So the day dragged by. They had no idea which direction Slim had gone searching in and so did not know where to keep a look-out, even if Jonesy had been willing to let Andy go out in the appalling weather which continued unrelentingly. There was certainly no news from up or down the main Laramie-Cheyenne road, but that was not surprising. If an accident had happened on the stage route, Jess would have been rescued long ago.

When evening came, they had still heard nothing. Jonesy had kept Andy indoors as much as he could and made sure the boy got warm and dry whenever he had to risk the elements. They sat by the fire together long into the night, sipping mugs of hot soup and eating chunks of Jess's new bread, which was all that they could stomach because of the suspense. But gazing into the flames bought no helpful visions. Finally they had to try to sleep, while the wild tempest rattled every door and window like a band of raging ghosts trying to get in. Neither one of them wanted to think what it must be like to be out in this storm without shelter.

"They're both experienced trail riders," Jonesy reminded Andy, "an' Jess has had years on the drift. They'll have found somewhere to hole up."

Another blast of wind rocked the building.

"Hope so!" Andy prayed softly. "Hope God's keepin' them safe."

 **\- # - # - # -**

The next day scarcely dawned at all. The continuous cloud cover blocked most of the light and the wind and rain were unrelenting, seeming to take it in turns to batter human habitation into submission.

Not long after breakfast, Jonesy was beginning to wonder whether he should contact Mort Cory and arrange for a search party to try to find the two missing men, when he heard a triumphant shriek from the yard.

"Jonesy! Jonesy! Come quick! Traveller's back again!"

Jonesy rocketed out of the back door as fast as his back would let him. It was true! Andy was standing in the middle of the yard, his arms round the neck of the weary bay, who was nuzzling his shoulder in what could only be pure equine relief.

"Look at this!" Andy pulled excitedly at the improvised harness holding the saddlebag.

Traveller snorted in distress, as if afraid of what would happen next.

"Easy, boy. I ain't gonna hurt y'!" Andy sounded, for an uncanny moment, like an almost perfect imitation of Jess.

But he wasn't. Traveller flung his head up and snorted again.

"Get him into the barn, if y' can, Andy," Jonesy advised. "It's calmer there. An' don't touch that bag. We don't want the rain gettin' inside and soakin' whatever's in there."

"Ok. Come on, boy," Andy laid a gentle hand on the bay's neck and, after a few caresses, the horse settled down again. "Come with me now." He didn't even try to lead Traveller in any way, but just relied on the horse's knowledge of him and of the routine of the ranch. He turned and walked slowly over to the barn, making encouraging chirruping noises as he did so.

Traveller lowered his head and sighed wearily. He began to move after Andy into the barn and then to his own stall. Jonesy followed at a discreet distance and quietly pulled the door closed once they were all safely inside.

"You gonna let me look at this?" Andy crooned softly, running his hand over the sweat-caked, mud-coated neck until he could touch the improvised harness.

Traveller made no difficulty as Andy carefully and slowly freed the saddlebag. He was home. That was all that mattered. He trusted the Young One and the Oldest. He must rest before taking the trail to the shack once more.

Andy handed the saddlebag to Jonesy. He was so wrought up he could not bear to look inside it. Instead he busied himself fetching Traveller water and a good feed. The horse looked exhausted, filthy and battered to a degree which Jess would never allow. Andy was just picking up the brush to try to remedy this, when Jonesy interrupted him.

"No time for groomin', Andy! An' if I know anything about that horse, he'll be wantin' to get back to his master and end up just like he is now."

"What's happened?" Andy demanded, his fear only too clear in his voice.

"Jess is injured and I guess his cough has given him a fever too. Slim wants the wagon taken up to the western line shack to bring him home."

"I'll get it!" Andy was already jumping to harness two of the freshest horses and lead them out to the wagon shed.

"Hold hard!" Jonesy said. "We need to get together some bedding to pad the wagon. Medicine too. And can y' find a tarpaulin for me, otherwise everythin' is gonna be so wet it'll be worse'n nothing. We can't take the big covered wagon up that trail, so it'll have to be the small one."

"Ok." Andy began to climb the loft ladder to where the tarpaulins were stored. "Then I'll harness the team, but I'll keep them in the wagon shed till you're ready."

"Good! Y' can help me transfer everythin' over. With two of us, it'll be quicker and drier." Jonesy was already out of the door as he spoke, trusting Andy to do his part efficiently.

They were ready in very little time, but as soon as Jonesy said: "Now I gotta get goin' pronto!" Andy began to object.

"You can't drive the wagon as well as I can, Jonesy, you know that! And it'll shake your back to bits!"

The old man frowned. He knew this was true, but he also knew Andy didn't have the skills needed to tend to the sick man. "I gotta go, Andy. Jess must need doctorin' real bad."

"Slim can do it!" Andy insisted.

"He wouldn't have send the note if he could handle it alone," Jonesy pointed out reasonably.

"He'll have me!" Andy was adamant.

So was Jonesy. "Quit arguin' and holdin' up this rescue mission!" he ordered. "I can't run this station on my own an' you can."

"But –"

Andy got no further, for they were interrupted by the sound of another wagon pulling into the yard and a familiar hail of greeting. Jonesy heaved a sigh of relief at the arrival of more adult help, for it was their nearest neighbor, Dan Travers.

"We're in the wagon barn, Dan!" he called from the doorway. As soon as Dan and two of his sons joined them, Jonesy swiftly explained the whole situation and the dilemma they were in. It was no dilemma to Dan.

"I'll take the wagon for you, Jonesy," he said briskly. "I've learnt plenty of doctorin' from Martha over the years and Slim may need help with some heavy liftin' too."

"Jess is not that fat!" Andy butted in indignantly.

Dan grinned. "No, but a delirious man or even an unconscious one's hard to handle," he pointed out. "Now, lend Tom here a horse and he can ride straight back to Laramie and fetch the doc for you. Tell him he'll be needed in two, maybe three, hours, Tom" he instructed his son. "Young Andy, can you saddle up that palomino of yours and ride hell for leather up to our place? Jim's the biggest and strongest of the three of you, so he can stay here and help Jonesy run the station until you get back." When Andy nodded, he was told: "Let Martha know what's happened and why we ain't comin' straight home. But don't, whatever you do, let her leave the kids. Tell her I'll send one of you up to get her if we need her." He knew full well his wife's soft spot for a certain Texan drifter would be urging her to rush down immediately and nurse him. "Tell her that Jonesy and the doc'll be here takin' care of Jess. She can do her bit later. But you'll have a hard time with her! Are you up to it?"

"Yes, sir!" Glad to be given a responsible job to do, Andy departed at a run to saddle the two horses needed, with Tom close on his heels.

"Let Traveller loose too," Jonesy called after them. "He ain't gonna stay quiet in a stall while it looks like we're all goin' after Jess."

Dan jumped into the driving seat of the wagon and looked round to check that everything was secure and well-covered, before driving it carefully out into the yard. Sure enough, the bay was already standing at the foot of the trail, his head tossing and his hooves churning up the mud impatiently.

"Don't worry, Jonesy!" Dan could see, now Andy had gone, how shaken the old cook was by the whole situation. "I'll bring them back, never you fear, and you can do y' worst to Jess for causin' all this trouble!"

 _If he's alive!_ was the unspoken thought which hung in the air as Dan shook the reins and urged the team forward on the first stage of the rescue.


	11. Chapter 11

.

.

.

 **11**

.

The wagon very nearly didn't make it to the shack. The trail had become a veritable sea of mud, displaced stones were scattered haphazardly across it and old ruts were awash with water. Traveller paced delicately through the obstacles, sure-footed despite his exhaustion. He only stopped when he had to wait for Dan to negotiate the vehicle across a particularly tricky place. Nevertheless, foot by foot, and sometimes inch by inch, man and wagon struggled up the old trail and through the gale-tossed forest, until they drew up finally outside the line shack.

It was Traveller's shrill whinny, above the sound of wheels and hooves, which alerted Slim to the arrival of help at last. The sound even touched Jess, deep in fever and torment as he was. He tried valiantly to turn himself in an attempt to rise from the bed and see to his horse, but the effort was too much and unconsciousness silently overwhelmed him once more. Distressing though this was to witness, Slim was glad because it made moving his patient so much simpler.

He was surprised but delighted to see Dan. His conscience had been troubling him at the thought of Jonesy struggling to get the wagon to this remote spot, never mind what it would do to his old friend's back. Now he had strong, capable and experienced hands to help him carry out the task of getting Jess home.

They wrapped Jess securely once more and were able to transfer him to the wagon reasonably easily. Slim got in the back with him and sat with his legs outstretched, supporting Jess in his arms against the jolting and swaying as best he could. Dan carefully packed them in and padded them round with the bedding Jonesy had supplied. The rain and wind continued to lash down from the west relentlessly, as if nature itself had undergone a character change and decided to treat them to a beating the like of which was not often seen in Wyoming. So a tarpaulin was hitched to the sides of the open wagon and pulled tight above them, to provide at least a little shelter against the raging of the elements as they began this final following of the homeward trail.

It was a nightmare journey. Nightmarish not just because of the conditions, although these were bad enough. There was a feeling of horror in being unable to see where they were going as they were transported foot by slippery foot along a trail which Slim knew was steep and dangerous at the best of times. The wind was so strong that, once they were clear of the forest, it felt as if every blast would tip the wagon and fling them helpless down the mountainside like the leaves flying all around them. Even a leaf, gale-driven, has a knife-sharp edge and plenty whirled into the wagon. Above the churning of the wheels and the rattle and slither of the team's hooves on the treacherous surface, Slim could hear the hoof-beats of Traveller and Alamo, who they had left to run loose. They figured that Traveller would not leave Jess and Alamo would stick close to his stable-companion, so had unsaddled them both, rather than hitching them to the precarious safety of the wagon. The two equine friends paced alongside the wagon like wraith horses in the frenzied dream plaguing the sick man.

The dream was a nightmare, like the journey. Jess's nightmare. It returned at intervals as they made their slow progress towards home. Each time Jess fought furiously against the protective restraint of Slim's arms. Being restricted seemed to drive him deeper and more painfully into the torment of his haunted vision. He struggled and groaned against it, begging to be let go. His eyes were wide and wild with fury and terror but he saw nothing of his surroundings, only some hideous experience playing out relentlessly again and again. Slim was not sure if it was the rain or tears which glistened on Jess's face even in the shadows of the tarpaulin. The shadows which closed them round were not just physical but drawn from the depths of some unbearable burden. It mattered not at all that Slim continually reassured his partner he was safe with friends and on his way home. The word 'home' seemed to provoke the most passionate reaction of all.

It was as well that the power of Jess's fevered frenzy could not last long. Each bout made his already weakened and suffering body less able to fight for his freedom. At last, by the time they had they finally reached to the gate in the fence where Jess's injuries had begun, he had sunk into stillness in a way which was almost as frightening as his frantic struggling.

Dan had got down to deal with the gate and came round to see how his young friends were faring in the back. He lifted the tarpaulin cautiously, looked them both over and observed: "He ain't doin' well."

"No." Slim could scarcely articulate his fears. "He's been in a high fever. Nightmares. Fighting against me. But now it's as if some chill has settled over him. It hasn't touched the fever. More like he's quiet because … because it's inside him … inside he's decided on death …"

Dan's warm strong hand grasped Slim's shoulder and gave him an encouraging shake. "Then you hold him in life and we'll get him to the doc as fast as if some fiend was chasin' us!"

Slim very much feared it was a fiend or rather some devilish memory which was driving his friend to destruction. He was soon to find out how right he was.

The wagon rolled on downhill. They were not far from their destination when Jess's eyes opened abruptly again. They were clear and rational. He focused on Slim's face, then turned his head away and tried to wrench his body free too. He said for the second time: "Don't look at me!"

Slim didn't know how to answer but he refused to look away.

Jess muttered fiercely into the shadows: "I can't stay. Can live here no more."

"Are you crazy?" Slim demanded equally fiercely, which was stupid because something was obviously driving Jess beyond sanity. "You belong here! What's got into you?"

There came a bitter anguished laugh. "Nothin'. It's been there all along."

"What?" Slim demanded, dreading the answer. "I know you. We all do. What could there be after all this time?"

"Y' don't really know me!" Jess's voice faltered and his body shuddered painfully against Slim's embrace. Each word seemed to be being dug out of him by some gouging knife-blade. "Evil in me … too dangerous … bring destruction on those … those I … love … most …"

Slim's heart gave a frantic lurch, he almost stopped breathing and his grasp on Jess tightened involuntarily. "You don't!" he whispered, helplessly, frantically.

"I let them all die."

If a voice had spoken from hell, it could not have equalled the depth of tormented guilt and grief in Jess's. He spoke slowly, sanely, implacably - each statement punctuated, as before, by a deathly pause.

"They had no grave – just ashes and rubble."

"Now this little 'un too!"

"I'll never know where she buried him. Never find his grave to mourn. Never stand by the place where he's sleepin' nor see a trace of him."

Once more he repeated: "I should'a died then. Gotta die now. Can't live with it any longer."

Suddenly he turned and looked directly into Slim's eyes.

"Ain't never gonna be trusted with a family again. That's what she told me: _You may be your brother's keeper, but you'll never be your son's_!"


	12. Chapter 12

.

.

.

 **Part 2**

' _Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt._

 _Nothing's so hard but search will find it out._ '

Robert Herrick

.

 **12**

.

The doctor straightened up and regarded Slim with pity. "I can't do anything else for him," he told the young rancher bluntly. "Yes, I can treat his body. I can sew up his wounds, set his leg, fight the fever and whatever else he gets in his weakened state. I can keep him alive. But I can't keep him sane."

He stopped as he saw the muscles tighten in Slim's throat and a long shudder run through him. He knew how close these two had become, how utterly Slim trusted and relied on Jess, and Jess on Slim. The whole town had felt the suffering when Jess had to face the news of Slim's death - a good few thought he had gone out of his mind then. When Jess proved Slim was alive, the victim of a vast criminal enterprise, and managed to bring both Slim and Andy safely home, everyone was ready to celebrate. Very few had an inkling of what that rescue had actually cost. The doctor was one; he had come at the time to treat Slim's wounds from the torture, but he had also talked to Jonesy about Jess's return and his reactions, besides being a shrewd observer of his most reluctant patient.

Now he said: "Jess needs more than physical healing, Slim. Whatever is preying on his mind, he will not recover until he has the answer he needs." He stood up and closed his bag with a decisive snap. "I'll leave instructions and some medicine with Jonesy. Find the answer for him, Slim!"

When the doctor closed the door quietly behind him, Slim sat motionless for a long time. So long that Jonesy eventually eased the door open again and poked his head round.

The room was almost in darkness. On the bed, his patient shifted restlessly, shaking with fever but never a sound passing his lips. Slim was sitting on the chair next to the bed, apparently oblivious to the basin of water on the bedside table and the sponge in it, since he made no attempt to cool his friend's raging temperature. He lent one arm on the arm-rest, his chin in his hand, his expression remote. There was no hint in his demeanor of the agonized decision-making going on in his mind.

He barely moved when Jonesy brushed past him and picked up the sponge. He watched without expression as Jonesy sponged Jess down, stripped off the soaking sheet and replaced it with a dry one and shifted the pillow so that the young Texan's head was better supported. All the while the wind continued to shake the building and thud against the roof and rattle the windows as if it was part of the torment Jess was suffering.

Jonesy finished his ministrations and stood looking down at them both. The love with which he regarded Slim was now equaled by his genuine affection for Jess and mingled inextricably with this was a deep sense of apprehension for them both. He had thought, like everyone else, that Slim's return to life and the legal acknowledgement of Jess's place on the ranch and in its family would mean the whole tragic train of events surrounding Slim's supposed death could be left in the past. Now, for some reason, he was remembering finding Jess asleep in the chair on the porch the night he finally got back from St Louis. He remembered the anguished words Jess had muttered in his sleep and the sense of worthlessness which had clearly been driving him to leave. But he hadn't left. Jonesy wondered shrewdly if he had ever talked to Slim about what had troubled him so deeply then. It seemed unlikely. Jess would always downplay pain of any kind with the familiar: "I'm fine."

Jess rolled over suddenly, his hands twisting in the sheets, his splinted leg dragging, every muscle straining in an effort to get up. When he failed utterly, they heard the first sound from him for a long time - a ragged groan caught harshly deep in his throat.

Slim stirred at last. He got slowly to his feet. He leaned over the struggling man and put a strong hand on his shoulder, forcing him to be still. "Stay here! I'll find it for you!"

Jess fought with surprising strength against the restraining hand. "You ... can't ... trust ..." The words faded into a ragged, rasping breaths as he struggled to get air into his tortured lungs.

Slim grabbed him by both shoulders, lifted him upright and shook him much harder than sick man should be shaken. "I told you I'll go! I'll find the place for you. Now you trust me! Just shut up and do as you're told!" His voice was fierce with an anguish equal to Jess's.

Jonesy was just considering intervening in all this totally unsuitable sickroom behavior, when Slim lowered Jess very slowly back onto the pillow. Then, with utter gentleness, he pulled up the sheet and tucked it neatly around the younger man. As he smoothed back the tumbled locks from his partner's forehead, he muttered: "Just hang on, will you? Use your stubbornness for that! Wait till I come back with your answer."

Jess sighed, as if the touch had somehow eased his torment, before silent oblivion took him away from them to some place unreachable by the ministrations and affection surrounding him in reality. Slim's breath caught in his throat and his hand, still resting on the dark, unruly hair, trembled. He looked up and met Jonesy's worried eyes.

"You'll take care of him, Jonesy, I know. And Andy'll be here. Martha and Dan too, they'll help all they can. I want to stay with him, but if I do, he'll lose his mind. I have to go now or it'll be too late!"

He was gone out of the door before Jonesy had time to blink, never mind respond. But Slim knew his response without words, knew that he would nurse Jess through whatever came and use all his skill and experience keep him alive, if possible, until Slim returned. _If possible_. The unspoken words were branded on both their minds with all the burning passionate care and responsibility they felt for Jess.

In the living room Andy was crouched over the fire. He looked up sharply when his elder brother came out of the bedroom. The youngster's face was pinched and drawn into lines of deep distress, quite unlike his normal, cheerful countenance.

He jumped up and faced Slim, demanding fiercely, "What's happening? Doc went away. He's just left some stuff for Jonesy." His voice faltered into sob and he flung himself into Slim's arms. "Is Jess gonna die?"

For once, Slim did not correct his grammar. He just hugged him close, wishing he could spare his younger brother the terrible fear of losing the people he loved, especially when he had already gone through the appalling experience of thinking Slim himself had died. But Slim was both a realist and totally honest. Much though he had tried to make sure that Andy's boyhood was a wonderful, happy and carefree time, living on the ranch was always hard and demanding: death was never far off and had to be accepted as part of the natural cycle of life. He would not comfort Andy with false hope.

"He may do," he replied gently, "but not if the Doc and Jonesy have anything to do with it."

"But the Doc's gone!" Andy repeated.

"He's got patients elsewhere," Slim pointed out. "You don't expect him to sit and hold Jess's hand, do you? If he did, Jess certainly wouldn't thank him for it. In fact, it'd rile him so much he'd be mad enough to get out of bed and fight!"

Andy smiled just a bit at this picture and said more confidently, "No. Jess's got you to do the riling! You won't leave him."

Slim gulped and then forced himself to be truthful once more. "I'm delegating any hand-holding to you, Andy. I've got to go and I've got to go now!"

"Why?" Andy's eyes were wide with shock.

"Jess is hurting real bad - not just in his body, but in his heart and mind, his spirit too. He needs something, Andy - the answer to a question. He won't let himself live without it. If I don't go now, I may never be able to find the answer that will save him!"


	13. Chapter 13

.

.

.

 **13**

.

 **\- a – j – a -**

When the front door thudded shut behind Slim as he set out on his desperate search, Andy remained by the fire for several minutes. He needed that time to master his fears and stop the pounding of his bruised heart. He needed to find the strength to face his brother's absence and the fact that Jess was, in his illness, even more out of reach than Slim would be. He needed to bring himself to shoulder the burden of responsibility which Slim had entrusted to him.

Then his back straightened and his head went up. He walked resolutely to the guest room door and opened it and went in. Like his elder brother, he would do what he had to do for as long as it took.

 **\- a – j – a -**

Slim rode through the driving gale, his head bent not just with the force of the wind but with the burden of his feelings and his responsibilities. At least the rain had stopped, but it felt as if the very elements were still fighting in an attempt to prevent him getting to Laramie in time to pick up the cooling trail of the woman who alone could provide the answer he was pledged to find.

At last he rounded the bend and descended the short slope into the main street, where his first stop was the Livery Stable. He handed Alamo over reluctantly, but with the knowledge that he might have to travel far in this quest by means swifter than his faithful mount. He left instructions for the horse to be taken back to the relay station if he did not return within five days.

Slim was tempted to go straight to the Sheriff's Office, because he knew there he could have the wisdom and support of Mort Cory. But his task was too personal and too urgent. Besides, murderess though Catherine was, there was no evidence to make a legal charge against her, even if deliberately driving a man out of his mind was a crime against humanity.

Instead he called at the bank, where he withdrew a substantial sum for travel expenses and arranged for further funds to be available in several other towns. The bank manager was unhappy, as it left barely any margin for the already stretched finances of the ranch, but Slim was adamant. He had no idea that this was exactly what Jess had done from his own account just about a year ago, but the manager remembered and was perturbed. What could have happened to make the normally cool-headed, economical and above all steady Slim Sherman behave in a way which mimicked exactly the actions of his far more volatile friend? Once again, discretion prevented him asking questions, which was just as well, since Slim would not have answered them.

Having made his financial arrangements, Slim strode along the street to the Hotel. If Catherine had visited the ranch, she would almost certainly have passed through Laramie. She was highly unlikely to ride or drive the long road from Cheyenne on her own and the nature of her business would mean that she could not simply alight normally from the stage at the relay station along with other passengers. If she had been in the town, it was equally likely she had spent at least one night at the Hotel.

Sure enough, she had registered in her own name, but with her address only as St. Louis. There was no information to help him find her now. The desk clerk remembered her of course. His recollection, however, provided no further details except that he thought the lady intended to travel by train.

At the railway station, Slim found Catherine had made a similar impression. The lady, the booking clerk informed him, had bought a single ticket to Denver. Slim did the same.

On the overnight journey he slept fitfully, his dreams troubled by memories and imaginings. Early in the morning, before the train pulled into its destination, he was wide awake and had come to a decision.

Again following in Jess's footsteps, the first thing he did on leaving the train was to go to the Telegraph Office. There was no way he could search the entire continent on his own and time was so desperately short. Uneasy though he was about this course of action, he had to get help: help from the one organisation which had both the resources and Jess's best interests at heart.

He had already worked out what to put in the telegram and wrote swiftly and neatly on the form: _Need Ranulfiar help most urgently for Jess. Must trace Catherine Sherman-Gordon without delay. Contact at Metropolitan, St Louis. Sherman_. He could only hope the address he had copied from Jess's wallet was the right one. He paid for the telegram and, after some further thought, decided to send another. A number of people had helped Jess to find and rescue him - surely they would be willing to help Jess himself? The next telegram was addressed to a distinguished resident of St. Louis, a certain Colonel Frobisher.

When this was done, he turned his attention to the possibility that Catherine might still be in Denver. He could not try every hotel and boarding house, but knew Catherine would never stoop to the poorer quarters. Even such a selective investigation would take some time, so he decided he must first utilize his own social contacts to narrow down the search. Accordingly he made his way to the offices of the Overland Stage Line.

As he entered, he heaved a sigh of relief. His luck was in. The smell of cigar smoke alone told him that Mr Frazier was there.

"Slim Sherman! Don't we give you enough work without you coming looking for more?" Frazier laughed as he seized Slim's hand and pumped it vigorously up and down. "Or did you just fancy the fun of driving the stage yourself for once? Life getting boring up there in the wilds, is it?"

At this point, Frazier realized the seriousness of Slim's expression and stopped ribbing him immediately. "What is it, boy? Come on, tell me!"

Slim gulped a hard breath, trying to decide how much to reveal. After all, Jess's demons were his own private concern. "It's all rather complicated, sir, and I've got very little time to solve the problem I have. In a nutshell, I'm trying to trace a cousin of mine, a young woman."

"In Denver, son? That's a tall order!"

In the whole country was an even taller order, but Slim merely replied: "I hope she's in Denver. It will save me a long chase. I have to try anyway. At least most people remember if they've seen her."

"Pretty, is she?"

"More than pretty," Slim admitted. "Stunning. Really beautiful."

Frazier laughed and said, "That makes it easier. Come along to my place in about an hour and I'll put you on touch with the best spying network in the state!"

Slim was tempted to say that he had already contacted one, but he had to grasp every straw offered him. He spent the next hour wearing out his boot-leather between Denver's various hotels and better lodging houses. Catherine had not registered at any of them, at least not in her own name, and Slim figured she wouldn't bother with hiding here if she hadn't in Laramie.

Feeling tired and despondent but determined not to give in, he made his way to Frazier's house. He was greeted as the old friend he was and ushered into the drawing room, which at first sight seemed to be filled with exotic blossoms and brightly colored butterflies. Slim blinked several times before the picture resolved itself. There were indeed a lot of flowers, but the butterflies were the bows and frills adorning what seemed to be a battalion of very pretty young ladies. He almost took a step back, but his manners were too good. He allowed Frazier to steer him over to the fireplace and perhaps the prettiest of all the young ladies, who was seated next to it.

"Mr Sherman, this is an unexpected pleasure!" Frazier's daughter, Shirley, rose to take his hand. "How good to see you again." She indicated a place next to her on the couch much, it must be said, to the frustration of most of her friends.

Slim sat down and tried to relax the clenched grip of his hands on his hat. Right now, a mild flirtation was the last thing he felt able to indulge in.

"Is everything well on the relay station?" Shirley asked in total innocence. She was remembering the day she had spent there some time ago, while her father went over the books with Slim.

"It's not been an easy year," Slim admitted. He wondered if the story of his 'death' and return to life had traveled as far as Denver.

"I'm so sorry. But you do still have the help of that young man ... Mr Harper, wasn't it …?" Shirley was remembering a very pleasant day spent exploring the nearby lake in the company of a dark-haired ranch hand with stunning blue eyes and a mischievous sense of humor, who had regaled her with tall tales about life on the stage line: ' _An' that's only the stage and crew, never mind the passengers!_ ' She smiled in recollection: "He seemed very nice. How is he?"

 _Very nice_. It was not exactly the description Slim would have applied to a man who had fathered a child with his best friend's fiancée. He caught himself up abruptly - he'd worked through all that - he should put it behind him. But how could he reply when the answer to question was 'going out of his mind with guilt and grief'?

He said austerely: "He's had an accident."

"I'm so sorry! Not serious, I hope?" Shirley was genuinely concerned and caused another pang in Slim's heart as he recalled Jess's ability to stir up the tender ministrations of most women. That certainly wasn't what he had stirred up in Catherine! The name recalled him to his task and he looked appealingly at his host.

"Now concentrate on one young man at a time, my dear," her father admonished. "Slim here needs you and your friends to help trace his cousin, a young lady who may be visiting Denver."

"Who is she? What does she look like?" There was a chorus of voices, all expressing the wish to help him.

Slim pulled himself together with an effort and gave them the relevant details: "Her name is Catherine Sherman-Gordon, from St. Louis. She's tall and very slender. Deep auburn hair and grey eyes. Dresses impeccably -" He stopped abruptly because a stir had broken out amongst the young ladies.

"Why, Mr. Sherman, it's easy!" one of them laughed. "She's out at the O'Connell place – I was there last evening. There's no mistaking her, she certainly is beautiful."

More than one heart in the room was reminding itself that Miss Sherman-Gordon was this very handsome young man's cousin and therefore a relative, not a girlfriend. Hope is natural in the young and romantically inclined.

Hope rose in Slim's heart too as he prepared to confront Catherine and wring the information Jess needed out of her by whatever means possible. Just as his rage had surprised him, so he now found that he had a ruthlessness which would have done justice to Catherine herself. He was hardly able to believe his amazing luck that it had been so simple to trace her; it seemed too good to be true.

In this, he was not mistaken.

But he made haste to thank Shirley and her friends for their help. He could barely contain his impatience and, on leaving the Fraziers, hired a buggy forthwith to drive out to the O'Connell mansion at the edge of the city.

 **\- # - # - # -**

"I regret to inform you, sir, that Miss Sherman-Gordon is no longer resident in this establishment."

 _What kind of a household in Denver had a genuine English butler_? Slim asked himself, as his attempt to gain entrance to the O'Connell place ended in utter failure. Out loud he just asked desperately: "I must contact her at once. It's a matter of the uttermost urgency. Please tell me where she went!"

"I am not at liberty to say, sir." The rebuke was delivered in cold, emotionless tones, as the butler shut the door in his face.


	14. Chapter 14

.

.

.

 **14**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

Nothing had prepared Andy for the shock of seeing the death pallor of his friend's, his beloved guardian's, face.

He'd barely caught a glimpse of Jess when Dan and Slim had carried him in from the wagon. The doctor had been there already and had shut the bedroom door firmly in Andy's face. Confronted with a great deal of adult activity from which he was summarily excluded, Andy had followed both his natural instinct and his Sherman standards - he went out and tended to the horses. And if he paid special attention to a weary bay horse who had made so many strenuous and vital journeys, Traveller had certainly earned the tender attention which Andy would like to have lavished on Jess.

When things had calmed down a little, Jonesy had described Jess's condition and what was happening, but despite what Andy had been told, it was utterly different to see the reality. Jess had always been so alive! Under his dark brows, his bright blue eyes were invariably sparkling with fun and mischief, at least when he was with Andy. There was something strong too in the very skin of him, his dark tan arguing a life spent facing the worst which nature could throw at him. And you could shoot holes in him and he'd come right back as if it was nothing at all. He'd never back down and he'd never give in.

There was nothing in his face now except withdrawal and a deep pain which was beyond Andy's understanding. If Jess's life-blood had been draining visibly away, it could not have left him more pale, more still. Even his unruly hair seemed tamed and flattened. His breathing was irregular and shallow. His skin, when Andy laid a hand on it, burned with a relentless fire.

But Jonesy had ceded his place as the carer without any protest, recognizing the strength that Andy's loving support could give. Andy drew a deep breath and picked up the sponge from the bowl beside the bed. It was up to him to keep hope alive.

"You ain't gonna die, Jess! I ain't gonna let you, pard'ner!"

 **\- a - j - a -**

The hope of an immediate answer for Jess had died, so there was nothing left for it now but to return to the place where all this had begun. If Slim could not trace Catherine's present whereabouts, he must try to find clues to the tragedy in St. Louis, which she had given as her residence. Of course, that might not be true. But she had acquaintances there, people who knew her, though he hesitated to say friends. Someone, he hoped desperately, might have an inkling of where she had gone when she left St. Louis society earlier in the year. But in his heart of hearts he knew she would have kept her destination secret, for he was very sure that Catherine's pride would not allow it to be known that she was carrying an illegitimate child!

Wearily, Slim boarded the train for St. Louis. At least, once he got there, he could rely on help from Lieutenant Warwick, Jess's wartime commander, and his covert organisation, the Ranulfiar. Despite his own ambivalent feelings, Slim knew none of Jess's old troop would desert him now, given what they had been prepared to do for Slim himself, whom they did not even know. This was a small comfort in a sea of uncertainty. He slept badly as before, but woke with the germ of an idea.

He had been thinking how someone might feel if they were driven into a traumatic and inescapable situation. Who would they turn to? Where would they go? And it came to him that, in dire circumstances, you turn to the people who have known you from a child: he did just such a thing himself, in his faith and confidence in Mort Cory. So perforce you might have to return to your roots, to the place you knew as a child and have left far behind as an adult. It seemed to him that he needed to find out much more about his cousin's background. But the only person who could give him such information was his uncle – and his uncle was in jail!

Slim alighted in St. Louis eagerly, full of determination to pursue his task with every means at his disposal and with all the ingenuity, experience and influence which he and his allies could muster. He was once again thwarted and disappointed.

At the Metropolitan Hotel there was no contact, no message.

When he called at the Frobishers' mansion, it was to find it shut up, arguing that they were out of town.

Thrown completely on his own resources, Slim did not give up hope. Rather his resolve hardened and his promise to Jess burned like a blazing torch in his mind. It was destined to take him into dark places. It seemed likely his uncle would be the only available source of information and that Slim's search would lead him to a prison, but first he intended to gate-crash polite society.

Actually he did not have to do anything so drastic. Simple participation in a game of cards at the hotel renewed his acquaintance with some of the men he had met as Catherine's fiancée. There was plenty of curiosity about his present relationship with her, since she had lost no time in resuming her status in society as a single woman. There was precious little information. Young men, Slim reflected ruefully, tended to be interested in Catherine's obvious attractions, rather than any specific news about her. Nonetheless, they were instrumental in reintroducing him into a number of houses and gatherings where he knew Catherine had been a frequent guest.

At these, he heard plenty of idle gossip but none of any substance. The women were willing enough to chatter all day, especially to the charming and handsome man who had previously been the property of only one woman and a proprietary one at that. He listened to many wild and often spiteful rumors about Catherine's behavior once she was not longer the mistress of her uncle's house. It was the general opinion that she had rapidly become the mistress of one of the city's most successful businessmen and bankers: none other than the O'Connell who owned the house in Denver. Despite the social circles opening for Slim, the information from them just seemed to lead him once more in a closed circle from which he could not break free. He was also heartily tired of fending off the romantic ambitions, flirtatious attitudes and occasionally less subtle offers of his confidants.

After a couple of days of intensive but polite interrogation, he had eaten more refreshments, taken more drinks, attended more gatherings, sung more songs and played more cards than he ever wanted to in his life again. He came to the conclusion that he had met the majority of those in Catherine's immediate circle. From it, she seemed to have vanished without a trace. No-one was in the slightest concerned. Reluctantly he decided he must attempt to talk with his uncle.

Such a meeting could not be pleasant one. Nathaniel Sherman had callously had his nephew brutally tortured in an attempt to gain Slim's family land. Slim had nothing but evil memories of how his uncle's pleasant face and civilized manner hid a malevolent mind full of selfishness, greed and pitiless inhumanity in obtaining his criminal ends. The man was under punishment for it now and could not bear any good will towards the nephew whose stubborn adherence to his heritage had driven Nathaniel to such extreme measures. But Slim himself had had no part in Nathaniel's trial nor did the torture form part of the convicting evidence. There remained a faint chance that they might have a meaningful conversation. After all, Catherine had been an important part of Nathaniel's status in St. Louis and Slim had been madly in love with her.

The St. Louis jail had originally been located in Fort San Carlos, but the old structure had long since been pulled down. Slim was unsure where Nathaniel would have been imprisoned and accordingly made his way to the Marshalls' Office. He was cordially welcomed by one of the Marshalls who had been instrumental in bringing Nathaniel to justice after Warwick's investigations and the Ranulfiar raid on the Sherman mansion had revealed the extent of his criminal activities. In truth, the Marshall was somewhat surprised to see Slim in St. Louis again, given the parlous state of health in which he had left it.

"Good to see you looking fit and well again, Mr. Sherman. What can I do for you?"

Slim's request caused even more surprise, which the Marshall tried tactfully to conceal. He had no need, however, to look up any details in order to give the young man his answer.

"That's easy. All prisoners are sent to the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City."

 _Jefferson City!_ Slim suppressed a groan with admirable self-control. He asked, hoping fervently he was wrong: "That's on the railway, west of here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, about a hundred and thirty miles," the Marshall assured him cheerfully.

Slim drew a deep breath. "I'd better get going!"

"Let me –"

But Slim had slapped on his hat and disappeared through the door before the surprised Marshall could even complete his offer: "Let me send a telegram and find out if you can see him." He hastened to the door, but Slim had already disappeared into the bustling crowd. Sending a subordinate to try to locate him at the railway station was a complete failure too. The Marshall scratched his worried head and debated whether to send the telegram any way, but there was little he could do to improve the situation. He did not have any influence over or personal contact with the Prison Governor. He just hoped Slim's strange request would have a positive outcome, as the young man was so visibly troubled.

Unsponsored and without any allies, Slim was definitely in trouble on his quest and found it very difficult to obtain admittance to the Penitentiary or any attention from anyone when he finally gained entry. Eventually, after a long and uncomfortable wait, he was ushered briskly into the Governor's presence, with the muttered advice that he should not waste the great man's time unnecessarily. There was no need for the warning. He had achieved his objective, only to discover that his uncle had been transferred.

"But perhaps you would be good enough to tell me where?" Slim was, by this time, as near to despair as his nature would allow him. However his response was governed by his innate courtesy, not to mention a sensible understanding that an outburst of frustration, no matter how justified, was not going to help his case.

The Governor considered him shrewdly. He approved of what he saw and could hardly believe that this obviously honest and law-abiding young man was any relation to the notorious and unpleasant prisoner he claimed as his uncle. After due consideration, he said formally: "We have chronic over-crowding here. The old fort at Defiance has been reopened and reinforced. A number of the prisoners have been sent there. Your uncle is among them."

"Defiance?" It seemed a good place for one who was probably going to obstruct Slim's every effort.

The Governor debated whether to describe the place any further, given the rumors of brutality, violence and corruption continuing in this isolated prison which, ironically, it had been set up to solve. He decided against it. He simply said: "Defiance is some thirty miles west of St. Louis. The prison is located at Darst's Bottom on Femme Osage Creek."

"It would be!" Slim muttered. He couldn't help himself. Then he recalled his manners, thanked the Governor politely and made his way back to the railway station. He was beginning to feel as if he should take out shares in the train company! Once again he found himself travelling through the night to St. Louis.

 **\- # - # - # -**

The ride to Defiance on a hired horse was rough and challenging, particularly as Slim did not realize he would have to cross the Missouri river itself. It took him a long time to find a boat to take him over, but it was that or swim for it, and, even if he made it safely, arriving soaking wet was not going to enhance his chances of being taken seriously.

Slim had started before dawn, but it was still well after noon before he came in sight of the old fort on the creek. The stone buildings loomed over the river, keeping a defensive watch as they had been built to do. There were four main blocks, linked by a strong, new palisade of wood and stone, which enclosed a central open space. There might once have been gun emplacements on the outer walls of the blockhouses, but if so, these were now trained inwards. Despite recent renovations, the fabric of the buildings was battered and stained. Old stone seemed to erode the new, as if the experiences of its past threw a long shadow over the present light. And the turrets and walkways which guarded the place literally overshadowed the building. It did not look to Slim like a place which invited visitors.

Nonetheless, he rode determinedly up to the main gate and hammered on the wicket door set in it.

There was no response.

Slim hammered again.

It was like knocking for entrance on the stone of a tomb. The place could not have been less responsive if it and everyone within it were dead.

He was just considering yelling or firing his gun, when there was finally some intimation of life inside the fortification. He heard footsteps approaching. The hatch in the small door snapped back.

"What the hell d'y want?"

It was not an encouraging first contact.

Slim was under no illusions that he could gain access to such an establishment without at least some official status. He was not prepared to lie outright, even for Jess, but he needed some convincing authorized reason why he should be admitted to the prison. Summoning every ounce of his integrity and natural command, Slim announced firmly: "I've come from the State Penitentiary on the instructions of the Governor. Admit me now!"

There was a long, grudging pause. Just when he had began to fear total failure of his bluff, bolts were drawn back with a noise which suggested they had not been oiled since the fort was originally constructed. The door opened and a burly guard looked out cautiously.

"Don't try anythin' funny. Y' bein' covered from the blockhouse. Tie y' horse over there." A dilapidated hitching rail was indicated with a jerk of the man's disheveled head. "Leave y' guns with 'im!"

Slim had a good look around as he hitched the horse. There didn't seem to be anyone or any other buildings in the immediate vicinity, but it was distinctly risky to leave his equipment unguarded. He took a chance.

"I'll put my guns down inside. You can cover me, as well as the others." He could see the glint of gunmetal on the walkways above and did not doubt the man's word that his every move was being watched carefully. He kept absolutely still, with his right hand well away from his gun and his rifle pointing to the ground.

There was another even longer and more grudging pause. Slim could feel himself being scrutinized from head to toe. Despite a beating heart and considerable misgivings, he endeavored to look calm, efficient and sufficiently authoritative to command obedience, rather than intimidate. The guards were noticeably jumpy and being threatening towards them seemed likely to be counterproductive.

"Come in!" The man had reached a decision.

Slim still moved cautiously, despite an almost overwhelming urge to rush through the door before the doorkeeper changed his mind.

"Put y' guns and rifle there." The guard pointed to a bench against the wall just inside the wicket.

"I hold you responsible!" Slim gave him a hard look.

The man nodded in acceptance, adding with a coarse laugh: "The boss ain't gonna wanna see y' armed t' the teeth, any more than he does the prisoners!"

The atmosphere inside the prison hit Slim in the face the second he stepped inside the gates. Not only was the air troubled by a continuous, rumbling murmur of many voices, occasionally pierced with harsh yells and screams, but it was rife with the stench of confined humanity. Even though they were in a narrow corridor under the walkway there was no escaping it.

The guard grinned again at the sickened expression on his visitor's face.

"This way!"

They began to penetrate further into the dark recesses of the place. Slim wondered what the man in charge of it was like and what he would make of Slim's unofficial entry into the prison. He could only pray that he would meet with some understanding of the urgency of his quest.

 **\- # - # - # -**

"No visitors!" The hard-bitten, cynical Prison Governor regarded the tall young man before him with a mixture of amused contempt and considerable irritation. "No-one in their right mind wants to come in here. Have you any idea what it is like in this prison?"

"I need to find Nathaniel Sherman!" the young man persisted. "It's a matter of the uttermost urgency!" He was getting tired of having to say this.

"The only urgency in here is how to keep the prisoners under control!" the Governor informed him. "And letting them have social visits is not going to help!"

"But it's a matter of life –" Slim began to protest, but was summarily cut short.

"If you value your own life, young man, you won't try to gain access to a penitentiary like this again." The Prison Governor's tone hardened implacably, as was only to be expected, given the problems and conditions with which he had to deal every day: in truth his own position and authority were hard enough to maintain, without showing signs of sentimental weakness in allowing family visits. The prisoners were, to all intents and purposes, in charge of the inner workings of the prison, but keeping them totally isolated from the outer world prevented them receiving funds for bribes or using pressure or influence to engineer their escape. His motley crew of guards were far from honest and would take any advantage they could over the inmates, but none of the prisoners had enough to offer to make it worth the guards' while to breach security. In fact the safety of the prison personnel depended up a rigid policy of control and isolation.

The Governor glared at his unwanted and unauthorized visitor.

"I don't know how you got here or why you came here, but I have two pieces of advice for you: go home and forget this place exists!"

.

* * *

.

Notes:

The prison fort is an amalgamation of two historical buildings: Daniel Morgan Boone's Fort, (1812 - 1815), Matso (a settlers' fort built by the son of the famous pioneer, with two or three blockhouses), located in Darst's Bottom on Femme Osage Creek. And St. Charles Blockhouse, (1793), St. Charles: A stone blockhouse located in the town's "common fields" to protect horses and livestock from Indian raids. This structure was dismantled and relocated to the Historic Daniel Boone Home and Boonesfield Village in nearby Defiance.


	15. Chapter 15

.

.

.

 **15**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

"Andy! You gotta rest!"

Jonesy was almost beside himself with worry not only for Jess but for his calm, resolute attendant. The boy had hardly stirred from Jess's side for the best part of two days. He sat absolutely still at the head of the bed, watchful, intent, focused only on his patient. He tended quietly, gently, patiently to Jess's every need, only calling for help from Jonesy and Dan for the tasks which required heavy lifting or when Jess's fever and anguish made him thrash and struggle violently. Such episodes were short-lived, but they were frightening.

At first it seemed that Andy's very presence exacerbated Jess's determination to gain his freedom from the ranch house. But at the beginning of one such episode, sudden clarity lit Jess's eyes. He struggled to sit up, but fell back, gazing in deep distress at his young attendant. His voice was hoarse and low as he murmured: "Ain't sowin' any more thorns ... I'm danger ... t'you, Andy ... drive me away!"

Andy gazed back down. For a long moment, it seemed that he was the adult and Jess a child whom he was comforting and protecting. "You'd never hurt me, Jess. You've always kept me safe. And you taught me how to face danger. The only danger I'm afraid of is you leaving us. Whatever we have to face, we'll face it together."

A long sigh shuddered through Jess's body, as if he had relinquished something or put down at least part of a burden. After this it seemed that gradually the boy's dogged persistence and absolute calm helped to overcome the torment which wracked Jess in his nightmares. They were becoming more sporadic but this was no comfort because Jess's strength was failing and something in him was turning inward, to a remote place of the spirit where he was alone and untouchable, since he could escape no other way. As if in sympathy with his times of withdrawal, the rain had ceased completely and the wind had dropped to something approaching its normal force. There were limitations to violence, even in nature.

Yet it seemed as if Andy too had left the limitations of the ordinary, everyday world behind just as effectively as Jess had. For a youngster to endure so long was miraculous, uncanny even, but it could not go on for ever.

"You gotta sleep!" Jonesy insisted in a tone which brooked no opposition.

Andy ignored the tone. "Slim's trustin' me, Jonesy. And Jess needs me."

Jonesy snorted impatiently. Sherman common sense did not seem to be operating at all! "Yeah, he's trustin' y', Andy. Trustin' you to keep Jess with us for as long as it takes Slim t' find that answer he's seekin'. And to do that, you need sleep 'n food 'n fresh air. Else when Jess really needs y', you're gonna be lyin' wore out in the other bed right next to him!"

His words struck home, for, after a fraught pause, Andy nodded. A shudder ran through him, as if he were returning to his real self and his tired body. Unexpectedly, he stretched and yawned.

"Besides," Jonesy added, with a relieved grin, "it'll get Martha Travers outta my hair if y' let her have a turn. Else I swear, Andy, I'm gonna take t' drink!"

 **\- a - j - a -**

Slim finally arrived back at his room in the Metropolitan Hotel, feeling he had lived a life-time in the mere hours of the past day, and longing for nothing more than to drop into his bed and sleep. Under the circumstances, he was not unreservedly pleased to find Stewart Vincent St John Warwick lounging in Slim's arm chair, with a bottle of whiskey, half consumed, on the table at his side. Slim was certain that he himself, never mind anyone else, had definitely earned a drink tonight!

The interloper rose leisurely to his feet and accorded the rightful inhabitant of the room a slight bow of greeting. The two men regarded each other impassively for a minute, then Warwick picked up the second glass he had thoughtfully provided. He tilted the bottle and raise a querying eyebrow to Slim. Receiving a curt nod, he filled the glass and passed it over.

Slim drained it in a couple of gulps and held it out. Warwick refilled it.

Slim sat down on the bed. Warwick sat down in the arm chair again.

"Well?" Slim didn't bother with greetings or inquiries as to how the other man had got into his room. He had some inkling of the burglary skills of Warwick's irregular band of ex-Confederates.

"Not well, I take it," Warwick countered, "at least not if you are prepared to come back here on Jess's behalf and are looking for that woman."

"It's a matter of life and death for Jess," Slim repeated wearily once more. Despite knowing the authority Warwick had had over Jess and his loyalty to their bond of comradeship, Slim did not feel he could bear to go into all the details this late at night after such a depressing day. Even if Jess would want him to.

"The Wolf-cub's gift for attracting danger and carrying pain, no doubt!" Warwick commented wryly, half to himself. His shrewd scrutiny of Slim had already led him to conclude that the young rancher was himself carrying a heavy mental burden as well as being physically exhausted. He knew it would not help to press for details now and, besides, he needed none – it was enough to know what kind of aid he must give Jess's friend to help save him.

Warwick poured them both another drink. Slim was aware that the level in the bottle was falling rapidly, but he was too tired to care.

"We don't have much time!" was all he said.

"Tell me what you've tried so far, then," Warwick ordered. "I don't want to waste time duplicating your efforts."

Slim marshaled his thoughts and gave a reasonably succinct and accurate account of the avenues he had tried in St. Louis society.

Warwick nodded and commented, "Cal may be able to help you there." An affectionate smile flickered across his rather austere features as he added: "He's got personal contacts."

"Good," Slim agreed.

"What else?" Warwick asked shrewdly. He could see Slim had certainly not been idle that day.

With a great effort, Slim pulled himself together and recounted his visit to the State Penitentiary in Jefferson City and what he had found out.

"So you went to Defiance." It was a statement, not a question. It was what Warwick himself would have done and he knew Slim would be no less resolute and persistent on Jess's behalf.

The weariness and frustration of the visit, not to mention the horror of the conditions he had perceived, colored Slim's voice as he explained how difficult and disastrous the day had been. He ended harshly: "Getting in there was my only chance to persuade Nathaniel to tell me what I need to know. But I failed."

Vin Warwick chuckled, annoying Slim considerably, as he could not see anything amusing about the impasse he had reached.

"There's a sure-fire way of getting into a prison, if you're willing to take the risk," Vin seemed totally unmoved by the obstruction of the Prison Governor.

"How?" Slim was baffled. "Tell me what to do."

Vin told him. Slim nodded slowly, realizing it was his only option. "So how do I go about that?" he asked.

"Well, first …" Vin reached under the table and produced a fresh bottle of whiskey, which he proceeded to unstopper: "First we make sure you appear sufficiently drunk!"

 **\- # - # - # -**

The Tumbleweed Wagon meandered slowly and laboriously along the trail south east towards Defiance. It was nearly full and its progress was accompanied by the curses and groans of the men packed inside. The driver ignored them. He had a harmonica in one hand and played a cheerful jig to counterbalance or maybe taunt the load of human misery he was conveying. The notes came out in sudden gusts as the jolting of the wagon made his breath hitch.

He stopped playing with a long, sliding discord. Two horses had halted beside the trail, at a junction where it was joined by another coming south west from St. Louis. One of the riders he recognized, a sometime bounty hunter named Gabe Grant. The other, by his roughed-up appearance and uncooperative expression, was a candidate for a ride in the wagon. The driver pulled his team to a halt reluctantly. His escort came thundering back in alarm, having passed the junction before the other two riders emerged.

"What's up, Grant?" the leader of the escort demanded as his fellows kept the newcomers in the sights of their rifles.

"Take it easy!" Gabe responded, laughing. "Anyone w'd think you never took on passengers. Why, this fella's just dyin' to join you." He pulled the end of the rope which was binding the prisoner to his saddle, causing it to tighten sharply, which elicited an angry groan from the man. "At least, he is if he ain't killed first. Got some idea he's gonna escape prison!

This brought a roar of laughter from the Tumbleweed crew. Escape was not impossible, but it often resulted in sudden death.

"He been sentenced, good and legal?"

"Yeah. Here's the papers. Drunken affray, robbery and murder. Stabbed some Frenchman over a game of cards. Don't go leavin' any knives around him, will you?"

The escort leader dismounted, took the document, and ran an eye over it, after which he drew out his keys. "Bring him over. You got the iron bracelets on him?" When the bounty hunter shook his head, the other continued: "He's welcome to a pair of ours!"

There was more laughter as the prisoner was untied, handcuffed and shoved roughly in through the back door of the wagon. Money changed hands and shortly the wagon was on its laborious way again.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Slim stood braced against the door which had just slammed into his back. Indeed he had little option. There was barely room to set his feet down. The two benches along the sides of the wagon were packed to capacity with prisoners and more crouched on the floor. They were all staring at him with expressions as varied as anger, contempt, challenge, hatred, despair and sheer servile fear.

He was winded by the blow, but showed no sign of it. Instead he stood arrogantly, dominating the small space both by his height and the fierceness of his expression.

"Just what in the name of all that's wonderful are you doing taking up space in our palatial accommodation at this late juncture?" The voice was surprisingly cultured and came from a small man, wedged up against the front of the wagon, staring at Slim with dull, hooded eyes.

"Same as the rest of you!" Slim snapped, "Only I figured riding most of the way in the fresh air was better than having to breath what's been through your mouth."

"You shut yours!" A man close to him leapt to his feet, despite the crowding, and lunged at Slim.

This prisoner was heavily built, with a long reach, but Slim had not spend twenty four hours preparing for this and other likely encounters for nothing. He was primed with tips about how to survive in such conditions from Gabriel, whose fund of criminal knowledge belied his angelic name. Slim not realized that some of the Ranulfiar had come under Vin's leadership direct from prison.

Now he flung up both arms, the iron of his manacled wrists meeting the blow as it fell. The man gave a howl of pain and dropped back into his seat.

"Stay there, if you know what's good for you," Slim advised him coldly. "The next time I'll break your jaw!"

"You make plenty of use of yours!" snarled a third man, seated next to the small man who had first spoken.

His neighbour put a hand on his arm and said softly, "Don't provoke him, Riley. He may come in useful."

The man thus admonished scowled, but held his peace. He was tall as Slim, his gaunt and wiry body suggesting a life of hard labor, almost certainly some of it in prisons. Slim looked him up and down with an expression of contempt.

"You've nothing to say unless you know something useful about the place we're bound for."

"Maybe I do. Maybe I do. But what've you got to offer in exchange?"

"Protection," Slim stated succinctly.

Riley grinned and looked round the wagon, taking his time to pick his allies. "We'll all need that, 'specially on the first day."

Slim issued another statement: "Anyone who joins me must be strong enough to hold his own. There's no room for passengers or weak links."

There was another grin. "Burrows, whose jaw y've just threatened t' rearrange - he's willing to take on anyone – even you! Slade, Johnson," Riley indicated these characters with a jerk of his chin, "they're good men in any fight. And of course we need McMorn here." He put an arm round the small man in a gesture more threatening than friendly.

"What use is he?" Slim demanded.

"He's clever. Knows a lot of useful things."

"Not clever enough to know how to avoid ending up in here!" Slim objected bluntly. He eyed the little man curiously. "How come you didn't escape, if you're so smart?"

"Because, my dear sir, even I cannot mend a horse's broken leg."

Slim nodded. "Fair enough. Now listen …"

.

* * *

.

Notes:

 _Acknowledgements for Chapters 15-18:_

Thanks to the reviewer (can't remember of which story) who suggested writing about what might have happened if Slim had not escaped in _Tumbleweed Wagon._ Chapter 15 - 18 arose from this suggestion.

The buildings in which the prisoners are confined and housed in the Defiance prison, together with the system of guarding, are entirely fictional; this arrangement was necessary to enable the events of the story to evolve. The physical, moral and social conditions in the prison are not.

Nelson, V. E. 1936. _Prison Days_ _and Nights. New York: Garden City Publishing Company_.

 _The American Prison in Historical Perspective: Race, Gender, and Adjustment_. Robert Johnson, Ania Dobrzanska, and Seri Palla, American University Pr.

U.S. Department of Justice Bureau of Justice Statistics, _Historical Corrections Statistics in the United States_ , 1850- 1984, Margaret Werner Cahalan, with the assistance of Lee Anne Parsons, Westat, Inc. Rockville, Md.

 _Marat/Sade: The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade_ , Peter Weiss (English version, Adrian Mitchel), directed by Peter Brook, RSC production adapted for film 1967.


	16. Chapter 16

.

.

.

 **16**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

The door of the small bedroom opened and closed quietly as Martha Travers came out. Jonesy looked up from laying the table for the evening supper and regarded her with understanding eyes.

"Doc say he's done the best he can for that damaged leg. And you 'n Andy're makin' a good job of keepin' down the fever," he reassured her. Despite his teasing words to Andy, Jonesy had a deep respect for Martha which was that of equals, each of them healers in their own right and way.

Martha nodded wearily. They both knew that the physical suffering was the least their patient had to bear and they to contend with. "But how do you heal heartbreak, Jonesy?"

"Ain't no-one can do that for y', Martha. Y' know that as well as I do."

"I know. But it's ripping him to shreds inside. He's like a person trapped in a thorn thicket, the more he struggles, the more it tears into him."

"He's strugglin' to get away from here too. That's what Slim warned me about." A grimace of sheer distress convulsed the old man's face for a moment. Then he sighed. "Good job he's got us all t' stop him."

"Andy's the one who's done that," Martha said softly. "He isn't going to let Jess go."

Jonesy nodded. "Them two. Bin like that ever since Jess first rode in." He shook his head, his natural worry over the youngest Sherman magnified many times by this dire situation. " 'M glad he's agreed he needs t' rest – otherwise he ain't gonna last watchin' all through the night …"

"Every evening from moonrise to dawn," Martha agreed. "As if he knows that's the most dangerous time of all.""

 **\- a - j - a -**

Evening had fallen. The wagon lurched to a halt. They heard gates grind open. Voices were raised in greeting. The wagon moved forward. It halted. The gates ground closed. The door behind Slim opened suddenly.

The smell hit him once again. This time there was no escaping from it. They were hustled out, yelled at to form a line by the guards, driven forward into a large bare room, ordered to strip. Their clothes were thoroughly searched. Slim submitted with an evil scowl, grumbling loudly about the lousy laundry service in this hotel. That was all until one of the guards appropriated his boots.

"Get your hands off those! I paid good money for that leather."

"A fellon like you ain't gonna need fine footwear," the man grinned. "Not where you're goin'!"

"Then get me some more! I'm not standing round all day in my socks."

Other items of value were being seized from the rest of the prisoners, so Slim didn't really have a leg to stand on – just his bare feet. This did not last for long, however. Presently the man came back with a heavily worn and creased pair of calf-length boots, which he proffered to Slim with a sardonic expression.

"These should fit y' alright, y' majesty."

Slim took them with a sneer. "Your taste in boots is a bad as the accommodation!"

"Think y'self lucky y've gottem," the guard retorted. "Y'll have trouble keepin' 'em on y' feet inside!"

They remained in the bare room for what seemed like hours. Individually they were taken away to the guardroom to have their convictions or 'Wanted' status confirmed through what rudimentary paperwork there was. When Slim's turn came, he was surprised to be almost immediately dismissed with a wave of a hand by the guard who had taken his boots. It did not appear that his presence in the prison had actually been formally entered in whatever rough records were kept.

Once all had been processed, some loaves of stale bread and a couple of pitchers of water were brought in. Slim knew enough to grab. It sickened him to see how the weakest fared the worst. But there was nothing he could do about it at this juncture. Now he had to concentrate on the mission which had brought him to this place and this knowledge. But he would not forget the lessons he was to endure as a prisoner of the justice he had always sought to serve.

"Barrack 2 and 5."

They were herded through an iron gate into the central yard, which was surrounded by lean-to buildings, built against the inner wall of the enclosing walkway. It was pitch dark by now, except for the lanterns held aloft by the guards. The blackness into which the prisoners were thrust was nothing less than symbolic of the unknown hell awaiting them. Slim had no idea whether he was in 2 or 5 and he doubted whether the guards cared either. All they wanted to do was to be rid of the prisoners and retreat to the safety beyond the locked gate.

Slim and his new allies had stuck close together. When the door of the old barrack room was locked, bolted and chained behind them, they found themselves in a totally dark, noisome space. It was packed with unseen bodies. They immediately backed up against the nearest wall, forming a tight group with McMorn in the middle.

"Don't make a move in our direction!" Slim snapped out. "I've got a knife and I'll use it!"

There was a hiss of in-drawn breath by the many of the inhabitants of the prison room. Someone laughed hysterically and was silenced with a blow. But no-one moved towards them.

"Make y'selves at home," a sardonic voice told them. "If y' bluffin', y'll wish y' hadn't, come morning!"

That was all. It seemed absurdly simple.

Fortunately, thanks to the money secreted in his original pair of boots, Slim actually did have a knife. It had been in the substitute pair he had received. So far the scheme hatched by Vin and the ex-bounty hunter, Gabriel, had worked fine. Nonetheless, everything hung literally on that knife's edge and on Slim's ability to deploy his advantage to the greatest effect.

The night passed interminably in uneasy awareness of the threat all around them. Slim certainly did not sleep. He did not fully trust the men with whom he had made a temporary alliance nor did he suppose that every one of the prisoners within the cell was just going to go peaceably back to sleep. In this he was right, for twice early on in the hours of darkness his band repulsed the approach of some unknown person. No-one was hurt, but the swiftness of their reactions was sufficient to warrant them being left alone for the rest of the night.

When the light of morning gradually crept through the cracks around the door, it brought little relief. It served only to illuminate the horrendous conditions in which they were confined. As grey light crawled into the cell, it seemed that it was defiled by what it revealed.

The first things Slim was conscious of were eyes.

Eyes gleaming bright. Angry eyes. Hungry eyes. Cruel eyes. Terrified eyes.

The inhabitants of the barrack cell were all awake. All staring at the newcomers. Those in possession of the place were packed in nearly as closely as the prisoners had been in the Tumbleweed wagon. The cell was furnished with what must have been the original bunks, for they were dilapidated and rickety in the extreme. The tougher prisoners had possession of single top bunks. The rest had to make do with sharing the double below, sometimes three or even four to a bunk. Some slept head to toe, but Slim was horrified to see a scattering of women and even older children forced into a close proximity which left them entirely vulnerable.

"So y' do have a knife." It was the same sardonic voice from the night before. It belonged to a particularly repulsive looking individual who was, of course, sprawling on one of the coveted top bunks and himself toying with a small blade. It seemed to have been fashioned out of some stolen metal, but it looked deadly enough.

"Y' can fight y' way to the top –" the man continued, gesturing to those in possession of such splendor, "but y' do it without bloodshed. It riles the guards."

A general laugh greeted this remark, but it sounded false, as if, for the most part, the other prisoners dared not fail to respond.

"Not aiming to stay!" Slim retorted, using all the revulsion he felt to harden his voice and his stance. "There's got to be better rooms in the state hotel than this."

He got a laugh too. A more natural one, as if people were surprised that anyone did not succumb to the situation's depressing face-value.

"Ambitious, ain't y'?" The man looked him up and down, then shrugged. "No doubt the boss-man's boys'll cut you down to size."

Slim hefted his own sizable knife and ran a finger down the very sharp blade. "Not unless they're bigger than this."

The man shrugged again. Slim's henchmen were heartened by his defiance, and began to jeer at the other prisoners, but Slim stopped this with a gesture of the knife. "Let's get right to the top first. Then we can deal with the scum below."

The very next minute, the bolts and chains on the door rattled and it was summarily flung open.

"Out! Food!" a heavily armed guard yelled at them.

Slim watched carefully to see how those at the top of the pecking order conducted themselves. Sure enough, at once they dropped from the bunks, pushing aside the lesser fry and striding arrogantly out of the door, exchanging curses and other imprecations with the guards as they did so. Not to be outdone, Slim led his band immediately on their heels, ignoring the rest of those in the cell.

Food was served in what had once been the mess hall of the fort. The number of prisoners far exceeded the original military complement and so the barrack-cells were emptied a few at a time, enabling the guards to have some control over the conduct and security of the prisoners. That said, there was little subtlety about it. Whips and rifle-butts were deployed vigorously and once again it was the weakest who suffered most. They also got far less of the barely adequate food. Begging was the norm and the strong were all to ready to extract whatever they wanted from those so desperate.

McMorn, with some perverse and uncanny skill, managed to ingratiate himself with the leader of their cell. When they were all herded back once more, Slim took a quick survey of the available accommodation and appropriated a couple of bunks in the far corner by the simple expedient of threatening the previous occupants with his knife. It was as near to private as the small band of unwilling allies could get. Keeping his voice down to a low mutter, McMorn was able to enlighten them somewhat about the life that they faced.

"You did the right thing staking a claim at the top," he told Slim. "The leader in here, Torrence, won't challenge you provided you don't try anything more than this." He waved a hand at the four bunks which had to accommodate six of them. "He reckons he won't need to challenge you. The head man of all the prisoners will do that. They're taking bets on whether you'll survive."

At this somewhat chilling information, Slim merely shrugged and inquired with heavy cynicism: "And where does this superior boss have his house?"

"It _is_ very nearly a house," McMorn said unexpectedly. "You saw where the yard narrows at the far end? Beyond that is a separate area the boss has made his. Even the guards keep out of it."

"So what makes Torrence think I'm going in there?" Slim was wondering if he would have to do so in order to find out which part of the prison his uncle was in.

"There's an exercise hour at noon. Half of us are let out, then the other half. Then again after they feed us in the evening. Around five at this time of year. The second time everyone's in the yard. That's when his men will strike. Give a demonstration of power. Test out the newcomers!" Then he added with an ironical laugh: "Those of you who can't buy your status with contacts or prestige."

"An' the guards stand by doin' nothing?" Riley asked sarcastically but looking nervous at the same time.

"They're safe on the rampart. If anyone refuses to go back to their cell when the night bell rings, they are shot immediately. It doesn't take many examples!"

"And you, I take it, have prestige to protect you?" Slim said, letting some anger color his voice.

"And you, young man, have a knife to protect you, which is more than any of the rest of us do!" McMorn told him roundly.

"I gave you my word. I'll do my best for you," Slim promised without thinking.

The others stared at him in amazement. He had, just for a moment, let his real personality show. He added swiftly: "I need to build my own gang in here. You'll do as a start."

Nothing more was said. They made themselves as comfortable as the cramped and meager conditions allowed. Slim naturally took a top bunk as his right and ignored how the rest sorted themselves out. He ignored too, as far as he was able, the fetid atmosphere, the stench as the night-soil buckets were emptied by the lowliest, the whimpers of fear or pain and other sounds he tried not to identify.

He let his mind wing swiftly back to home and to Jess's silent suffering – to his fear of an old evil within him. Surrounded as he was by so many who had chosen real evil, Slim believed with total conviction there was no such thing in Jess. But something had happened in the past – some deaths which he was still utterly convinced he had caused – the deaths of those who were most dear to him. This too Slim found hard to believe. He knew Jess's fierce loyalty to his chosen family, never mind his own blood kin. Jess's whole nature, just like Slim's, was to protect and support with every last ounce of his own strength. So the death of a son he had never had a chance to know, let alone embrace with this powerful instinct …

The door bolts rattled and the locks grated. Exercise time interrupted Slim's thoughts. Once again the most powerful surged out of the door first, Slim at the forefront of them. He had been warned. Fortunately. Otherwise he would have revealed his shocked comprehension and given himself away completely.

He had never seen such horror, not even in war. At least in war there was the hope of some chance beyond suffering, of some ending if only through death. Here there was a living death. The physical death of those too weak and emaciated to protect themselves from the strong. The spiritual death of those who had chosen to lose their humanity in order to exploit the weakness of others. The look in the eyes of those in his barrack was magnified by hundreds of others in this hell. He paced round the yard, keeping his group close about him, as they obeyed the harsh commands of the guards. It was obvious that even the most belligerent prisoners were unwilling to disobey lest they become the next exemplar execution.

Freedom, such as it was, was short-lived. Slim was determined to make the most of this access to the yard, not just by scanning the crowd for his uncle, but by memorizing his surroundings too. There was no doubt where the seat of power amongst the prison inmates lay. As McMorn had informed him, the yard narrowed at the far end. Five men lounged in the entry to the hidden section. There was no doubt either of their dominance or their intent. They obviously feared neither the guards nor the other inmates. Slim figured they must be well armed, even if their weapons were concealed.

He had noticed them. They too had noticed him. Marked him with their inimical stares. Challenged him across the breadth of the yard without a word being uttered. Slim knew for certain that, when the evening came, he would have to face this challenge and fight.


	17. Chapter 17

.

.

.

 **17**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

 _Sometimes you have to be a rock,_ Andy thought. _Sometimes you can get swept away by the river of feelings and events and someone else has to be your rock, your safe place. But sometimes you have to be the rock yourself._

If he did not hang on to this belief, he would be overwhelmed by what was happening to Jess. Jess, who had been more than a rock, more than a safe place to him. Jess, who had made Andy more alive, more his true self. Jess, who had brought such freedom, such sheer exuberant fun into everything … now trapped and silent and unmoving in a prison which seemed to be of his own making.

Andy didn't understand why, but he was determined that he was going to be that rock which stopped Jess being sucked under by the malevolent current of horror and darkness.

 **\- a - j - a -**

Slim came out of the mess hall after the evening food distribution into the gloom of a yard where darkness and danger were inescapable. The whole area was packed with filthy, ragged, anemic bodies. Terrors and hatreds, hungers and lusts, cruelties and violence were like waves almost visibly sweeping through the crowded inmates. Strange currents of fear and privilege bound disparate groups of prisoners together so that they formed distinct centers of stability, like rocks in a swirling flood. Slim hastened to make sure his group likewise asserted their right to the space around them. The outcasts and unprotected were at the mercy of whoever chose to use or abuse them. Whether the newcomers would fall into this category or prove their right to rise above, was about to be put on trial.

The challenge was not long coming.

With an uncanny unity, the frenetic movement of the crowd stilled and a way opened through it with almost miraculous speed. The path so cleared led to the far end of the courtyard and the dark entrance to the lair of whoever was really in control of the prisoners' lives. Slim could see nothing definite, although there was the distinct impression of someone raised above the level of the yard, seated in the shadows as if on a macabre throne. But there was no time to make out more. His attention was at once riveted on those who stood immediately before the opening.

Slim remained quite still, his height, his fitness and the relative neatness of his dress distinguishing him utterly from the motley rabble around him. He kept his face impassive and his head up. He waited. He looked casual enough, but it was an act. Inside him every nerve was alert and every muscle and sinew ready to fight.

His immobility and calm disconcerted his opponents. They were used to instant aggression or attempts to flee. For a few seconds they stopped staring at their potential victim and exchanged confused glances. That was their mistake.

In the resulting pause, Slim strolled casually towards them. He moved as if he had nothing to fear, an expression of acute scorn and displeasure transforming his normally pleasant features. He stopped when he was within a few feet of the men and the entrance they were guarding. He still could see virtually nothing in the shadows except maybe the glimmer of a pale face and the glitter of eyes.

He said nothing, just looked his opponents up and down.

One of the men moved into the open space remaining between them. He was a mountain of a man, obviously much better fed than the majority and carried himself like a wrestler.

"Think you're cock o' the walk, do y'!" he sneered.

As he spoke, he flung himself at Slim, intending to knock him down and pin him to the ground. Slim was too quick for him. At the last second before impact, he twisted away, stuck out a boot and send the man sprawling. As the man staggered past him, Slim grabbed his out-flung arm and used the momentum to add force to a throw which was so violent it knocked all the breath out of the man completely and left him writhing on the floor.

Slim kicked the fallen body out of his way before straightening up, trying as he did so to keep his breathing calm and even. He was uttering a prayer of thanks that one of his wartime regiment had taught him some Eastern unarmed fighting techniques. He stood still again and waited silently. He was unsure of the rules of this trial by combat and was hoping fervently that it was limited to one to one. This seemed reasonable, as no man could prove his ferocity if large numbers of opponents simply overwhelmed him.

His assumption proved correct. Another opponent moved out of the group, this time no heavyweight, but a man as thin-bladed and sharp as the knife he drew. He did not even bother to issue a challenge, just dropped into a fighting crouch and began to circle Slim lazily, contemptuously. It was evident that he did not expect the fight to last long.

This was the moment Slim had dreaded. He had been warned it might happen. It was imperative that he continue to play the role he had established, but he had hoped it would not come to this. He was not afraid of the fight. But he was afraid of failing, maybe dying, before he could save Jess's sanity and his life. What he dreaded most of all was that this was a fight to the death, for whoever ruled the prison could not allow either challenger or challenged to show mercy to the other.

And he did not want to kill, even though his opponent would show no compunction whatsoever. It was an artificial fight, staged just to prove a point. Slim had killed his share of men, but always for a reason. He never desired to kill, not even now, when the man's evident barbarity and corruption sickened him. Slim's only reason for this killing lay dying hundreds of miles away. It had to be enough …

He drew his own knife and dropped into a fighting stance.

A wide circle of spectators formed around the fighters, swaying and fluctuating as the pair lunged and parried, each trying to drive the other so that they were trapped against the human wall. Neither succeeded, but their efforts created hysterics among those closest to the flashing blades.

Both men drew blood. Neither was badly injured. The crowd began to chant.

"Blood! Blood! Blood!"

And then more chillingly: "Guts on the ground!"

At the same time, the man made a sweeping slash at Slim's abdomen. If he had not sucked in his panting breath and flung his weight backward, the blow would have disemboweled him. But it threw him off-balance and his opponent was quick to follow up his advantage.

The enemy blade was poised momentarily from the thwarted upstroke, then flashed down towards Slim's throat. He did the only thing he could do - flung his arm across the descending blade and took the glancing blow on his forearm. Blood spurted bright, but it was better than the instant death of an arterial wound.

The man pulled back from Slim, struggling to keep his knife between them, where he could make another killing stab at a vital organ. Slim, on the contrary, pressed hard against his opponent, knowing he was done for if he allowed space for the blade to come between them. The fight became more of a wrestling match, but Slim's adversary had seen his skill in unarmed combat and was in no mind to allow him the advantage of a hold or a throw. Instead he too pressed forward, flinging his whole weight against Slim, forcing him to lean backwards.

Slim lost his balance again. He staggered and dropped to his knees in an effort to find stability. The man slashed at him and Slim parried the blow, catching the knife on his own and forcing the man's blade upwards. For a split second his enemy, looming over him, was completely exposed to Slim's knife. He had only to stab upward and it would be ended -

 _He could not do it!_

His integrity would not allow him to kill just because he could. His sense of justice demanded that this man be made to understand and pay for his vicious iniquity. Killing was, in a sense, too good for him; justice demanded more, even though he already inhabited a place closely resembling one of the regions of hell. Slim wanted him not only to pay for his crimes, but to understand their evil and turn away from it.

Slim's hesitation was the other's opportunity. He flung himself forward, his knife slashing down. Slim jerked backwards again and grabbed the descending arm in both hands, dropping his own knife as he did so. The man gave a triumphant yell.

It was premature.

Once again Slim used the impulse of the other's attack to add strength to his own maneuver. His shoulders twisted forcefully as he flung his opponent to the ground, where they rolled and wrestled frantically, each trying to gain control of the one knife which remained between them. The advantage should have been Slim's. He was fitter than his opponent and better fed and younger. But he did not have prestige and a privileged seat in hell to fight for.

"Guts! Guts! Guts on the ground!"

The crowd scented immanent victory for the prison champion. It was in their very best interests to support him with all their might.

The chant beat upon Slim like some malevolent drumstick, pounding him into submission. His opponent managed to get behind him, clamped Slim's arms to his side with one of his own and slewed them both round to face the dark alleyway where the unseen one was awaiting the outcome of the fight. His opponent's tightening embrace forced Slim to lean his head back, exposing his throat. The man brandished the knife in his other hand in front of Slim's face.

"Blood! Blood! Blood!"

The chant was deafening. But the flash of bravado betrayed the supposed victor.

The man leaned forward, the better for a slicing stroke across Slim's neck. But at the last possible moment, Slim wrenched sideways with all his strength, pulling them both towards the ground. At the same time, breaking free from the restraining arm around him, Slim grappled with the man's hands, seeking to shove the knife up and away him.

The speeding knife missed Slim's throat, but the upward impetus was too great to check. The stroke was deflected by Slim's sudden grip. The man was already off-balance and falling forwards. The blade plunged into his own neck. He gave a gurgling cry.

Blood fountained onto the dry earth and splashed against Slim's back. The lifeless body struck him a heavy blow from behind.

"Blood! Blood! Blo …"

The chant faltered and faded away. Total silence fell. Into it a voice spoke. An urbane, cultured voice, totally at odds with the surroundings.

"Well, well, Matthew. I see you have finally realized which heritage you should be following!"

As if by magic, the crowd dispersed and the yard was cleared. Only Slim stood over the body in the sand. The remaining thugs retreated well away from him, awaiting further orders. His own group of supporters hung back too, unwilling to forego a share in his glory, but equally unwilling to commit themselves to earning it.

Once again, Slim stood utterly still. He did not show any reaction to the sudden revelation of the whereabouts of the man he had been seeking or make any response to his uncle's comment. His formidable self-control kept him impassive, waiting to see what would happen next.

There was a chuckle from the shadows. Then the familiar voice went on coolly: "Looks like clean up time, gentlemen. There's nothing like a fight for winnowing out the weak! I'll see you in the morning, Matthew."


	18. Chapter 18

.

.

.

 **18**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

Had Jess given up the fight? That thought clenched like a fist of fear round Andy's heart.

As the shadows lengthened and the night swept over them like a black and inescapable flood, Jess had turned away from him - rolled over onto his side, as far as he was able, put his face to the wall. Andy had heard adults say that this was what people did when they had decided to die. Now it was the darkest hour of the night, the cold before dawn, when the spirit is tethered but lightly to the body. What was to stop Jess breaking the fragile veil between time and eternity?

But Andy had vowed that Jess would not die. He had promised his brother he would take Slim's place.

What would Slim do now?

They had joked about hand-holding. Now, suddenly, it seemed that only a physical tie, which encompassed all the love of their small family, could possibly fight against the powers of darkness and despair. Andy moved from his chair and sat on the bed. Leaning over Jess, he seized both his hands in his own.

"Slim's holdin' your right hand, Jess. And I'm holdin' your left. And if you had three hands, Jonesy'd be holdin' one too! We're all holdin' you, Jess. Me 'n Slim 'n Jonesy 'n the doc. And Martha and Dan and Mort and everyone who … loves you. Don't leave us, Jess!"

As night crawled towards dawn, Andy remained at his vigil, holding and hoping. A single tear fell and splashed on their joined hands.

 **\- a - j - a** -

Back in the cell, where another night must be endured, Slim stripped off his blood-stained shirt and appropriated one from the nearest inmate who was about his size. He tore up his own shirt to staunch the cuts he had suffered and bind up the worst. But he could not clean the blood so easily from his conscience. He slept uneasily again, this time haunted by useless speculation about how else he could have handled the situation.

When they were summoned to the meager provisions which were supposed to break their fast, Slim found himself escorted from the mess hall by two men who led him away from his companions and into the guarded entrance at the end of the exercise yard. He wondered briefly what they had done with the body. Certainly there had been no sign of knowledge or reaction on the part of the real guards. Nor did anyone attempt to stop him being transferred to the secret part of the prison.

It was possible to see, by daylight, that this area had had some residential or administrative function during the past. It was not exactly a house, but there were separate rooms around a small courtyard which incongruously had an old, dried-up fountain in the middle of it. Slim was conducted to one of the doors opening on to the yard. Stepping inside, he found himself in a dining room.

The irony of this stabbed into him more bitterly than his throbbing wounds, recalling as it did the events of a year ago and all the pain and betrayal which had followed. Seated at the table, enjoying what looked like a normal, hearty breakfast, was the man responsible. Responsible not only for major crimes across the country, but for the violent attacks ordered on Slim and others like him who dared to stand up for right and justice.

"Sit down!" His uncle waved his napkin – yes, it was a genuine napkin – at the chair at the other end of the table.

Slim approached confidently, grabbed a plate and helped himself generously from the choice of food on the table. Then he sat down in the chair his uncle had indicated and at once began to eat.

"You've got a nerve!" Nathaniel Sherman snapped.

Slim stopped eating and gave him a hard look. "I'm a Sherman. What do you expect?" He forked up another mouthful and added: "Besides, you owe me a good deal more than breakfast!"

"I owe you nothing!" Nathaniel stated. "If you want to eat in here, you can earn your keep."

"If last night was anything to judge by, you could do with my help," Slim retorted. The conversation was not going at all the way he had hoped, but if he did not stand up for himself he would be in serious trouble. "I have back-up, but I don't want a war."

"Yes, McMorn said you might be open to negotiation," his uncle told him unexpectedly. "Can't think why he's taken to you, but he knows more than you or I will ever learn."

Slim frowned, thinking rapidly; he had had no idea that the little man who had latched on to him and his band would turn out to be so influential and therefore useful. All he said was: "Why he's with me is our business."

"But you want a share of mine?" Nathaniel suggested wryly.

"I want out of here," Slim replied, "but I want information first."

"Information?"

"Yes. I need some information which I think you can supply." Again the conversation was not following the course he envisaged, but he had not expected to find his uncle in such a position of power, where trying to put pressure on him was impossible. Nor did it seem likely that he could be persuaded or tricked, leaving Slim only with a direct demand.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow and waited in silence.

Slim took the proverbial bull by the horns. "I want to know where Catherine's been hiding."

"My dear boy, why on earth do you want know that?"

"I need some information from her."

Nathaniel grinned. It was a particularly unpleasant grin. "She won't give it you. And you're not the type to get anything out of her."

"She was engaged to marry me," Slim pointed out.

The evil grin deepened into a roar of derisive laughter. "Don't delude yourself. You had absolutely nothing to offer her. The only reason she bothered with you at all was because I told her to!"

"In that case, I won't try to sweetheart information out of her," Slim promised. "There are other ways of making a woman part with it."

"How petrifying!" Nathaniel mocked. "I'm sure she's shaking in those very expensive shoes of hers."

"She's scared enough to disappear," Slim pointed out. "Now where would she go?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Frankly, I don't give a damn. She could be in hell for all I care."

Despite the part he was playing, Slim let his disgust rise to the surface. "She is your niece. You brought her up. Surely that means something?"

Another shrug. "I plucked her out of the backwoods and made something of a grubby, ill-educated hoyden. She played the role of dutiful niece for what she owed me." Then, all of a sudden, rage convulsed his uncle's face. "And she and that conniving gunslinger of yours managed to ruin everything! If anyone's going to track her down, it will be me and I won't be playing the kindly uncle when I do!"

"I could help you," Slim suggested.

"You? You'll be in here even longer than I will," Nathaniel sneered.

It was not in Slim's interest to give away right now that an escape was being engineered for him. Unlike the rest of the inmates, he had not been registered officially, so no-one would mark his disappearance; beside, the guards certainly didn't seem to take a count of the prisoners nor register the demise of any of them. So he shrugged in his turn. He was not going to get the information he needed from Nathaniel, not unless he could somehow force it out of him physically and, with his bodyguard of thugs, this was next to impossible. And there was no chance for him to gradually work his way into Nathaniel's good books, because Slim trusted his own time in the prison would be very limited. Although seething with frustration and fear that his search was getting nowhere, he resigned himself to listening attentively to his uncle's plans and his own supposed part in them.

 **\- # - # - # -**

That same night, McMorn and Slim were present at Nathaniel's table while the rest of the prisoners struggled to find enough to eat in the mess hall. Only the three of them sat down, which Slim found strange. He soon discovered why.

When the rest of Nathaniel's motley crew of followers were out of earshot, McMorn turned the conversation to power and status and, above all, influential contacts – and how these could be manipulated to gain quick release, maybe even an escape. He subtly deferred to Slim as the instigator of any such escape, giving him a bargaining tool with Nathaniel. Not that Slim employed it straight away. On the contrary, he ate in silence, looking rather bored and totally disinterested in the conversation.

Goaded by McMorn's hints, however, Nathaniel eventually allowed himself to make his interest known. Escape was too attractive a possibility to let slip. He knew that however much power he had inside the prison, his contacts with the outside world were seriously curtailed and all his wealth and influential friends could do now was to make sure he had some decent food to eat. If his nephew had any kind of plan or outside support, Nathaniel was going to take advantage of it. He came straight to the point: "I'll make it worth your while if you take me along."

Slim considered him coldly. "You haven't got anything worthwhile to offer."

"Not in here. But once I'm outside, there's plenty salted away in bank accounts the Marshalls never even found a trace of."

"Once you're outside," Slim informed him, "I'm willing to bet all the money you've ever stolen that I won't see you for dust. Never mind your bank accounts!"

"I can't think what gave you such a distrustful view of me," Nathaniel protested, genial uncle persona well to the fore.

"You did!" was the quick retort. "I don't trust you outside at all and I don't trust you in here very much. You've nothing to offer me."

Slim's words sparked an echo of what Nathaniel had said about Catherine, just as he had intended. The older man's expression sharpened and he said shrewdly: "I might be able to help you find Catherine."

"I thought you wanted to punish her yourself?" Slim reminded him. "I'd like to speak to her and for that she needs to be alive."

"Oh, I'm not going to kill her," Nathaniel assured him, "but by the time I've finished she'll wish she was dead and she'll never again use that pretty face of hers to get what she wants!"

"I want to know where she's from," Slim demanded. "Where would she run and hide?"

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "In the backwoods, like the animal she is. I'll tell you where once I'm beyond those locked gates."

"You could lie," Slim said, knowing full well how likely this was to happen. "If I'm going to get you beyond those gates, I need some information now. And I need some kind of proof it is true."

Between his heart and mind, Slim was caught in a horrible dilemma. He could not and would not free Nathaniel Sherman from the punishment justice had rightly meted out to him. But, if he did not do so in order to obtain the information he sought, his chances of saving Jess were reduced almost to nothing.

Nathaniel considered for a long moment. Then he said: "You remember your Great Uncle Jethro – the one the rest of the family never approved of? They thought he was hung for horse thieving in Denver, but he was a hard man put an end to. He was my uncle and Catherine's grandfather."

Slim nodded. Catherine had once mentioned in passing her delight that she was not associated with the old rebrobate any more.

Nathaniel reached into the inner pocket of the coat he was wearing, pulled out an ornate fob watch and opened it. He held it out to Slim, so that he could read the inscription: _Jethro Sherman, Millsap Springs, staked and won, 1856._

"Proof enough?"

"It'll have to do." Slim wondered how much more information would be forthcoming.

"The old devil cheated in a card game and won a parcel of land, a whole valley no less." Nathaniel reminisced. "That was after the rest of the family rejected him and he turned south and skipped the gallows. Paid off too, in the middle of the gold rush. At least for a while. Mind you, the whole area came to nothing, they were just about surviving when I inherited it."

 _So that was how he came in contact with Catherine!_ Slim had been sure there was no instinct for family unity in Nathaniel. And his uncle was not particularly keen on it now, either. He waved a dismissive hand towards the door and said with a sneer: "You'll be locked out of your legitimate beds. McMorn can let me know when we're going outside." A cold chuckle accompanied them on the way to the door.

The lock-up guard, the same one who had given Slim the boots, was leaning against the door of Barrack 5 when they returned. He did not seem surprised at where they had come from or that they were breaking the curfew. Instead he opened the door for them with a sweeping gesture and said sardonically: "Sweet dreams, gentlemen!" The door shook and the bolts and chains rattled viciously as he locked them in. The last sound of their incarceration was the grating of the key in the lock.

They made their way to their bunks, but McMorn laid his hand on Slim's arm, the pressure preventing him from mounting to the top one as usual. Instead they sat side by side on the lower bed, from which the little man had summarily ejected the occupants. No-one took any notice their unusual behavior or if they did they attributed it to some kind of perversion fancied by the newcomers.

The night passed interminably slowly, but Slim schooled himself to patience. Evidently this had something to do with the escape plan. After a long time, the moans and whimpers, creaks and groans died away to the all-most silence, which was as near peace as this compressed collection of humanity ever came. Shortly after, Slim's hand was seized and tugged, suggesting they should rise silently and move to stand just inside the door.

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity. It was certainly hours into the night and the effort of standing without moving was severe. Slim leaned against the wall, easing his aching legs a little. McMorn was moving stealthily, doing something silent and slow on the other side of the door-frame, the hinge side. There was a faint smell of rancid fat in the air.

Presently the little man moved again. Slim could see as well as was possible in such minimal light, his eyes having become accustomed to the almost unrelieved darkness. He sensed McMorn bending over the latch and what must be the keyhole.

There was a slight grating sound. The door opened silently, just enough to allow them to slip through. Outside McMorn carefully re-locked it, greased and slide the bolts into their proper position and silently secured the chain with its padlock. He grinned at Slim, his eyes and teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

"Careless, aren't they?" he whispered.

There was really no need to whisper. They were completely alone in the moonlit yard. They might just as well have been on the moon.

"I presume you would wish me to fetch your uncle now?" the little man inquired, with no more urgency than if he were inviting him to dinner.

Slim nodded.

"Stay in the shadow," McMorn warned. He disappeared into the shadows himself.

When he came back, Nathaniel Sherman was with him.

"Come on!"

The three of them edged their way round the courtyard, keeping well to the side and in the darkness under the ramparts. At length, they reached the main gate, the only means of entrance into or exit from the prisoners' area. It was no surprise to find the same guard waiting for them. He opened the gate and they eased through. Then he led them swiftly down the dark corridor beneath the ramparts, until they were at the wicket in the main gate. He pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the small door quietly, the bolts and lock of this also apparently having been oiled.

Immediately, Slim turned to face Nathaniel. "You're at the gate. If you want out, tell me where she comes from!"

Nathaniel laughed. "My dear young man, you are so naïve. Do you really think I'll forgo my revenge, now you've so kindly freed me?"

"Tell me!" Slim ordered again.

The only answer was another laugh.

McMorn tapped Slim's shoulder. "Come on. We're wasting time."

"You have one last chance, Nathaniel," Slim warned. He did not believe his uncle had any intention of helping him, any more than Slim had of releasing Nathaniel from the prison, but he had to try.

"And you're going to stop me seizing my freedom?" Nathaniel asked. "I wonder how you're going to do so, since my friend McMorn has taken the precaution of removing your knife!"

"Like this!" Slim did what he had always intended to do: he slugged Nathaniel with all his considerable strength. The man collapsed in a heap inside the gate. It felt good to have repaid him some of the pain he had caused Slim, but this was not Slim's main consideration.

"Take him back inside," he ordered the guard. "He isn't going anywhere."

The guard looked worried and confused, but McMorn said quietly: "I advise you to do as Mr Sherman Junior orders. The consequences of not doing so could be fatal, since I have not, in fact, removed the knife you gave him."

Faced with such a choice, the guard pushed them hastily out of the wicket. They heard it locked and bolted behind them and the sound of a body being dragged away along the stone floor.

"Come on," McMorn ordered, "let's steal some horses!"


	19. Chapter 19

.

.

.

 **19**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

"Things look better, but I guess there's a long way to go, isn't there, Jonesy?"

The old cook nodded in acknowledgement of Andy's assessment. Jess was quiet now, as if acquiescent, drawing a little vital life-force from the love of those who cared for him, which Andy had made tangible and real for him. But there was no guarantee that it would last or that it would be enough.

"No tellin' what may happen, Andy, but we gotta have faith!"

"I do have faith in you, Jonesy. And so does the doc. And Slim. I really mean it!"

"An' I know how much Jess really means to you, Andy. Like there was somethin' special right from the day he rolled up here – a driftin' stranger you knew nothin' about, but y' still took him in and made him part of this place before ever any of the rest of us realised what was goin' on – what was the truth of it."

"You wanna know what's true, Jonesy?"

"You're sayin', Andy."

"Jess doesn't just matter to me. He matters to all of us. He says sometimes that we took a risk on him –" Andy paused and looked hard at the old man who had been a constant in his life from the day he was born. "But the real risk is that he won't know he matters. That's why, Jonesy, you gotta do what he needs. While I'm restin', Jonesy, you gotta hold his hand, you just got to!"

 **\- a - j - a -**

"Why are you risking all this for me?" Slim demanded, as McMorn calmly appropriated two horses from the prison stables, which were fortunately outside the walls. The man had manifold criminal connections and commanded respect among those from whom it was gained only by felonies equal to their own. Together with his aloof, sardonic demeanor, there did not seem any reason for him to help anyone but himself.

McMorn stared at him as if he was mad. "I owe Steward St. John Warwick," he said briefly. More than this he was clearly unwilling to divulge. "Come on! Mount up. I'll see you on your road to St. Louis. Warwick made sure that neither of us was registered as an inmate of the penitentiary, so there'll be no pursuit. "

He peered at Slim's face in the dark and added with some contempt: "If your conscience is pricking you, leave the horse at the Marshall's Office. Someone will send it back, if need be. Although it would not come amiss if those recreants inside were forced to walk instead of ride." He was not referring to the prisoners.

Slim arrived at St. Louis shortly before dawn, McMorn having shown him a short cut. He fell into bed and slept like the dead for six hours. Awakening seemed like being reborn – being able to have a bath, salve his knife cuts, throw away his filthy clothes, put on his own boots and eat a decent breakfast. This done, he promptly collapsed on the bed and fell asleep again until an insistent hand shook him awake.

"Come on!" It was a command Slim had heard too much of lately, but he forced his eyes open and struggled to sit up.

Vin Warwick was standing over him, looking disgustingly fresh and ready to go. "Come on," he said again, "we have a social call to make."

Slim groaned. The last thing he felt like was being sociable, especially in St. Louis society.

"Make a nice change from the last company you sampled," Vin grinned. "Welcome back, by the way."

"How did you -?" Slim started to ask and then stopped abruptly. Something told him, as Jess would say, 'you don't wanna know!' Instead the thought of Jess brought his desperate fear flooding back. Had it all been worth it? But he could not have achieved even such a meager and tantalizing snippet of information without the strings only Warwick could pull.

"Thanks for arranging it," he said, without intending any irony. "I hope what I found out will be worth your efforts."

"Our efforts," Vin corrected him. "We're all in this together. You can fill in the details later. Right now, we have an appointment."

Shortly afterwards they were standing on the doorstep of Colonel Frobisher's mansion. The good Colonel had, on his return to the city, received Slim's telegram and they were assured of his support. Vin told Slim that they needed, apparently, to consult Frobisher's daughter, Eleanor. For some reason, he seemed to find this extremely funny. Slim was not able to get to the bottom of why this was before the door opened and Frobisher's butler admitted them.

"Good to see you recovered your health, Mr. Sherman. It's a pleasure to have you making a proper visit to us, sir." The man beamed at Slim as if they were old friends; he himself was Frobisher's former orderly and occupied a privilege place in the household. "Please come this way. I'll show you in to Miss Eleanor."

He led them across the hall and flung open the door to the drawing room. Their startled gaze beheld a moment in time which they were probably not intended to observe.

A young lady was seated on the couch beside the fire. On the rug at her feet, a man was kneeling. His red head was bent over their linked hands and his other hand was on his heart. The sudden intrusion of visitors made the couple freeze. A tense second ensued when no-one moved or spoke. Then Vin murmured with a hint of a chuckle: "Don't let us interrupt you."

The man and woman looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"I guess you just did!" the red-head exclaimed, getting nimbly to his feet. "There are some areas where I ain't in need of brotherly support, y'know?"

His voice sounded so familiar, so like Jess's, that Slim's heart contracted painfully. Along with Slim himself, Callum Harper was the person who cared most about Jess, although several people came close behind including Vin Warwick. Certainly Cal was the one who knew Jess best of all. Slim understood that they had spent much of their childhood together and been part of the inseparable brotherhood of the Ranulfiar band during the war. In a sense, to know Jess was to know Cal, but their closeness stirred up unexpected jealousy in Slim. Unexpected and illogical, for the older man never claimed any privileged relationship, despite his intimate connection with his cousin's life.

Vin, meanwhile, had greeted his friend and second-in-command with a handclasp and a hug, then bowed politely to Eleanor Frobisher. "I see that you, Miss Eleanor, have at last succeeded where we all failed and managed to install some sense of decorum into Cal."

She smiled and shook her head. "If I've learnt one thing about Harpers, it is not to expect them to do anything the way convention demands."

"I thought I was doin' quite well!" Cal protested with a grin. "How was I to know they were gonna burst in like that?" He sounded so exactly like Jess proclaiming his total innocence that Slim was forced to grin as well. Cal, however, was bent on finishing what he had begun. "Well, will you?"

A beautiful smile lit the woman's face. She would have been counted plain by the standards of city fashions, but her integrity and generosity gave her an aura beyond mere convention. Now she was alight with both joy and amusement.

"Of course!" she told him. "I thought that went without saying?"

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's good to hear it for sure," Cal admitted. "So, if you and I don't have to say any more, I'll talk to y' father later."

As if he had been summoned, Colonel Frobisher appeared in the doorway. Whether or not he had heard any of the conversation, he knew his daughter well. He raised his eyebrows and said: "I trust I'm not interrupting?"

Eleanor succumbed to a giggle. "You and everyone else!" she told him. "But fortunately we were negotiating silently, so we can continue whether all of you are here or not." She gestured to them to be seated. "Whatever is bothering you, you won't improve it by standing around looking tense."

As they obeyed, Vin explained: "We're here to help Slim, who's trying to help Jess."

Father and daughter exclaimed together: "What's he done this time?"

Everyone looked expectantly at Slim. He took his time marshaling his thoughts, in order to give a concise and truthful picture without revealing Jess's most intimate secrets, which he was not sure even Cal had the right to share.

"About a week ago, Catherine Sherman-Gordon visited the ranch. She spoke to Jess and what she said made him pack up his gear and leave for good." Surprised gasps greeted this information; they all knew the lengths to which Jess had gone in honoring his brotherhood with Slim and how much he valued belonging to the little family of the relay station. "Unfortunately, Jess was already ill from a chest infection. He rode out into the most foul storms, got soaked to the skin, frozen near to death and injured his leg as well. He reached shelter, but he was unconscious and barely breathing when I found him. Then the sickness turned to high fever. We managed to bring him back to the ranch and the doctor is treating him, but it's not just his body suffering. Whatever Catherine said to him struck him a deadly blow to his heart and mind. She withheld some vital information and if Jess is to recover, I must locate her and find out what he needs to know. But I don't know where she is, where she's vanished to again."

"I was goin' to him," Cal said softly. "Just sayin' goodbye …" He looked at Eleanor and they were all certain he had been saying a lot more than farewell.

"The dreaming," Vin said, equally softly. Slim could hear in his voice that whatever 'the dreaming' was, Vin felt strongly about it and the feeling was not one of approval. "I don't suppose it told you where Catherine is?"

"How the hell would Jess know that?" Cal snapped back.

"He might subconsciously," Vin pointed out reasonably, "but it's Slim who needs to know right now."

"That's easy, Mr. Sherman," Eleanor interrupted. "I have just come from her wedding. She was married this morning."

"Married!" several voices exclaimed in identically shocked tones.

Cal just said: "Thought you were lookin' extra pretty today." Trust a Harper not to miss an opportunity to charm.

"Who to – where - how can I find her?" Slim's questions tumbled out in a jumble.

Eleanor smiled at him. "She married Devereaux O'Connell, here in St. Louis."

Slim gave a sigh of relief. "I've caught up with her at last!"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Sherman. You see, they left immediately for Denver."

 **\- # - # - # -**

The night train to Denver. Again.

The three of them took a private compartment together. Nothing much was said until they had disposed of the contents of the excellent supper hamper the Frobishers has supplied. Then Vin produced another couple of bottles of whiskey and opened one.

When he had handed them each a glass, he turned to Cal, his expression and his tone suggesting that he was both irritated and concerned. "Suppose you tell us about this latest dream?"

Cal looked suddenly agonized and deeply worried. He took a big gulp of whiskey, but he pulled himself together with an obvious effort and explained: "It started about a week ago. Not like normal …"

As he hesitated, struggling to find the right words, Vin said dryly: "There's never been anything normal about it!"

"About what?" Slim asked, puzzled that something was going on here which he could not understand.

"Tell him!" Vin ordered firmly.

"I was goin' to, only you keep interruptin'!" Cal retorted. He thought a bit more and went on: "Usually I get a clear picture of what's wrong. This time it was all blurred, as if Jess was in a fog of pain or drownin' in it." His breath hitched momentarily, before he could continue: "And y'know how good Jess is at admittin' to pain."

"Physical pain, we've all seen him deal with that," Vin frowned, "but is this physical?"

"No!" Slim and Cal answered simultaneously.

"It was like before," Cal went on. He looked searchingly at Slim. "Like when he asked our help for you. Like he's bleeding to death. But more than that – desolation – guilt – despair … draggin' him down into darkness … wringin' his heart of everything warm ... leavin' him so deadly chill …"

Slim found he was nodding. He knew what Cal said was true because he'd seen it with his own eyes. "But how do you know?" he asked, still uncertain how Cal could understand so intimately what was going on in Jess, when he had been hundreds of miles away.

"I share his dreams," Cal replied simply. "Not often. Just when he's needin' someone."

"And won't admit it!" Vin added.

Cal scowled at him. "You know why! Now quit interruptin' and let me finish this!"

The exchange felt uncannily like some of Slim's own with Jess – arguments over whys and wherefores, but, below the wrangling, the deep bedrock certainty that they would never let each other down. Slim knew too that Cal and Vin had the same unassailable ties to Jess. Otherwise they would none of them be hurtling through the night towards Denver.

"Is there more?" he asked.

"Yeah. For the first few nights it was overwhelming pain – more than pain … such agonizing cold. Then last night it was different. Suddenly he spoke real clear."

The listeners held their breath.

"Just two words. _Thorn seed_. Over and over again! _Thorn seed_." Cal looked at them, confusion and hope together in his eyes. "I know it means something, but I can't remember what."

" _The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree_

 _I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed._

 _I should have known what fruit_

 _would spring from such a seed."_

It was Vin who spoke. He and Cal looked at each other. Their gazes locked. They seemed to be caught up in something a long time ago and a very long way off.

"The burned-out mansion," Cal breathed. "Now I remember!"

"Yes. We were talking about responsibility. I quoted those lines." Vin recalled, his face grave. "I never realised Jess had memorised them."

"Didn't need to," Cal reminded him. "Once he's heard something important, he won't forget. Nor would any of us, if it was vital."

"But we didn't know how important those words were then, not to Jess."

"The night afterwards. The second dream." Cal sounded shaky. Vin stood up and put an arm round his shoulders, silently offering strength until the shuddering stopped. Cal looked up at him again. "We didn't know it was important to Jess like that."

"Like what?" Slim burst out in frustration. The pair of them still seemed to be talking in riddles.

Vin let go of Cal and pushed him gently back into the seat. He picked up the bottle and refilled all their glasses, Cal's twice since he swallowed the first in one gulp. Vin stood looking down at the member of the Harper clan whom he knew best of all and Slim was aware again of the profound, abiding affection which underlay the ex-Lieutenant's austere and sometimes forbidding bearing.

"Do you want me to tell him?"

"Please," Cal said, sounding exhausted.

Vin sat down next to him, facing Slim. "The first time Cal shared Jess's dream was about two years before the war. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, he just saddled up and headed for Texas. More recently, I've managed to cure him of being quite so precipitate in the dark!" Vin smiled slightly for a second, but continued seriously, "We arrived at Cal's uncle's ranch, Jess's home, to find it burned to the ground. There were no survivors. Or at least, so everyone thought at the time. We didn't know then that Jess was not buried by the neighbors with the rest. The bodies were too badly burned and there were too many of them for more than a few to be identified."

"The little 'uns!" Cal whispered.

"Yes. I think so." There was another tense pause. "There was nothing we could do. After that, the war came. Cal and I were in the same troop, as you know. We got all the misfits no-one else wanted. We were sent a certain fifteen-year-old Texan they didn't seem to be able to discipline. Of course, once we'd got over our surprise at seeing him alive, he fitted in very well." Another wry grin accompanied this statement, but Vin's next revelation was grim indeed. "One day, we came upon a burnt-out mansion. Everyone – mainly women, children, cripples, even slaves – had been slaughtered. We buried the dead. We moved on. That night, Jess dreamed again. Fortunately we didn't have to ride a few hundred miles to get to him this time! Afterwards the whole troop talked about the way such massacres happen in war. I quoted the poem. But Jess didn't explain. Not then. Not until much later, when we encountered one of his older brothers. Then he told us how his father had ordered him to get the younger ones out of the burning house. And how he disobeyed. Tried to fight off the raiders. Left it too late."

Slim's throat tightened so that he could not even gulp, let alone speak. He heard again the words torn from Jess's heart and soul: ' _They had no grave – just ashes and rubble_ –' and the repeated assertion: ' _I should'a died then - gotta die now - can't live with it any longer_.' Now he knew for certain the unspeakable burden which Jess had carried so long.

"So there's another child or children Jess is grieving for now, isn't there?" Vin concluded softly.

Slim just nodded.

There was a sigh. Cal leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He did not need to express his agreement, but said matter-of-factly, "I figured you might be findin' him a bit of a handful when he's like this. Didn't know it was just Jonesy and Andy. Best I get there as soon as possible."

"Do that," Vin agreed decisively. His attention turned to Slim. "I'll come with you to Catherine. I know O'Connell, so we should be able to get into the house at least. Then it's a case of whether she will talk to you or not."

Slim acknowledged this support gratefully. He swallowed the lump which still clogged his throat and told them: "Miss Eleanor was kind enough to give me a note to deliver to Catherine. It should help."

Cal opened his eyes and mock-glared at Slim. "Secret notes? Just be careful I don't call y' out on that!"

It was not much of an attempt at humor, but it helped to release them just a little from the horrors of the old tragedy and how it had haunted Jess. Another glass of whiskey helped too. Presently Vin returned to the results of Slim's stay in prison: "Do you still need to know where Catherine was raised?"

"I do. I may have to go there to find out what Jess needs to know, if she won't tell me."

"Let's not bank on her bein' helpful," Cal agreed. "The only decent thing she's ever done is to make friends with Eleanor." Despite the red hair he did not blush easily and told them unashamedly: "No good me tryin' to stop to it either, 'cause Ela's one independent woman. I just ain't too keen on it. Reckon she's usin' Ela for some purpose of her own –" He stopped abruptly, then exclaimed: "Dear God, it can't be to get back at Jess?"

"If that's her aim, she's already succeeded," Slim reassured him. "Perhaps she just finally realized Miss Eleanor's quality – the very highest, if I may say so."

"You may indeed!" Cal smiled. "Y' can say that as much as you like. Pity we didn't bring her with us – a woman's more likely to be frank with another woman, especially if we're buttin' in on the honeymoon!"

This was a valid point, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

"Never mind the women," Vin interposed impatiently. "What about your uncle? What clues did you get?"

"Not many," Slim replied ruefully. He told them about Nathaniel's 'proof' and the words engraved in the watch case. "It doesn't help us much because we have no idea where Millsap Springs is."

Vin's brows drew together in concentration and he asked: "Do you know anything else about your Great Uncle?"

Slim shook his head. "Only that he was more or less driven out of the Sherman family. As far as I know, he never made it as far north as Dakota, as it was then. Instead he turned south after the quarrel with his brothers. That much Nathaniel confirmed."

"Your uncle inherited his land?"

"Yes. Jethro was his uncle and Catherine's grandfather. The family thought he had been hanged for horse theft, but he seems to have escaped."

"What was Nathaniel's attitude to the property?"

"Contempt!" Slim recalled. "He said it was just a backwoods valley and totally worthless. But he did mention that it had paid Jethro for a while because gold had been discovered."

"Millsap Springs. Gold. But not much, by the sound of it. A valley. Somewhere south of Wyoming. And the name Jethro Sherman. A name not without notoriety. That should give us enough to locate it," Vin told him confidently. "Leave it with me. May take a few days once we get to Denver, but if it still exists, the Ranulfiar will find it."

"So let's stop worryin' and get some rest," Cal suggested, with his usual practical calmness.

As the train thundered on towards their destination, Slim fell into a deep sleep, exhausted by all he had endured, but reassured that for once their efforts were throwing up some positive information. He could only pray now for a swift conclusion to his quest.

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Some of the events referred to in this chapter by Cal and Vin occur in _Encounter in Shadows._

Poem quoted: Byron, _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_


	20. Chapter 20

.

.

.

 **20**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

A deep sleep had fallen upon Jess. His breathing was still weak and shallow, his pulse erratic and his skin hot, but his body seemed to have accepted the need for respite. Instead of fighting, he was waiting. Waiting as if he remembered Slim's promise and his order: 'I'll find it for you. Wait till I come back with your answer.'

Jonesy had heard those words. Andy had been told by Slim what his quest meant. They both held the same hope in their hearts. As they looked down together at their patient, both of them were praying that somehow Slim would make good his promise. They had heard nothing of his search or how it was progressing, but knew without question that he was not contacting them because all his energies were given wholly to finding the answer Jess needed. Slim could be anywhere, doing anything. There was no imagining what his search might involve or what it might cost. All they could pray was that he would encounter people who were prepared to help him.

 **\- a - j - a -**

The door of the O'Connell mansion in Denver was opened in exactly the same way by exactly the same butler as it had been on Slim's previous attempt to gain entrance. It gave him a literal sense of déjà vu. He just hoped experience was not going to repeat itself in the same way.

The butler surveyed them with cold eyes.

"Good morning, Sir Stewart. Mr O'Connell is making his morning calls, but if you would care to step into the drawing room, he should return within the hour."

"Thank you, Greaves." Vin led the way into the house, turning right towards the central door in the hall with obvious familiarity. Greaves opened it for them, ushering them into a room whose rich furnishings argued considerable wealth.

 _Trust Catherine to fall on her feet!_ Slim thought, with uncharacteristic bitterness. It was all too evident now that she would never have tolerated life on a ranch.

"We have a message for Mrs O'Connell from Miss Frobisher of St. Louis, which she has asked us to deliver personally," Vin informed the butler, once having gained entrance for them both. "I have a number of other calls to make. This gentleman will remain until Mrs O'Connell is at leisure to receive him. Please convey our respectful greetings to Mrs. O'Connell."

"Very good, Sir Stewart." Greaves took this arrangement with indifferent calm; he was too professional to comment on the foibles of guests to the house. His pompous use of Vin's hereditary title took Slim aback somewhat, but his puzzlement was soon submerged in the increasing tension with which he anticipated the meeting to come.

Vin departed. Slim sat down in a chair near the fire and waited. Waited for a considerable time. It was nearly an hour before he heard light footsteps and the door opened. He stood up.

Catherine let the door swing shut behind her and glided over to a position in front of the fire. She stood there, poised and erect and unfeeling, like a beautiful statue. She said nothing. She gave no indication whatsoever that she knew the man before her, let alone that she had had any intimate relationship with him.

She stood in the firelight and Slim saw again, as if for the first time, a tall, slender young woman, stunningly beautiful, with exquisitely smooth, creamy skin and grey eyes. Today she was dressed in a simple but elegant russet suit and the blaze of the fire caught the shimmering colors of the long, bright waterfall of her wonderful hair. Despite marriage, she still wore it loose. Or perhaps it was only that she was in the domesticity of what was now her own home?

Slim had loved her passionately and truly. As he faced her again, he was doubly betrayed and rejected, by her liaison with his best friend and by this subsequent marriage. His feelings were not healed, despite all he knew about her. He was not immune to her beauty. Now that he was actually in her presence, he found he was totally unable to bring himself to speak about the reason for his visit. He too said nothing. Fortunately he was sponsored and not without an introduction.

Silently, Slim held out Eleanor Frobisher's letter. Catherine took it. She turned away and sat in one of the fireside chairs. Slim remained standing while she read the letter. Somehow he felt more in command of himself and the situation if he was on his feet. Catherine had a disconcerting habit of being able to wrong-foot one's expectations.

When she had read the letter, she looked up at him. She gestured to the chair opposite her. Slim hesitated, but then his good manners made him take a seat when requested to do so, even if it was without words. Catherine regarded him coolly for another period of silence. Slim was beginning to fear that she would change her mind and simply dismiss him with a gesture, when she finally spoke.

"Miss Frobisher asks that I hear what you have to say. I respect her request. I would prefer, however, that you keep your communication brief and to the point. I see no reason for there to be unseemly emotion between us."

Slim was thunderstruck. _How could she possibly make such a statement, knowing her intimacy with both himself and Jess? But perhaps there was no emotion involved on her part?_

He drew a deep breath and spoke as calmly as he could. "The life of a child is always worthy of our emotions – our love, our protection, our hope for the future. The death of a child, even more so."

Catherine continued to regard him with a steely gaze, totally lacking in any feeling, except perhaps a hint of perverse triumph. Slim realized that she had anticipated how this news would affect him, how it would perhaps even shatter his friendship with Jess. He understood for certain now that she must somehow have found out about the death of Jess's family and his part in it. She had used this knowledge ruthlessly to deal a lethal blow to him. But Slim could not let such realization distract him from trying to obtain the place of the child's birth or at least of her own childhood from her.

"I know what you told Jess," Slim continued quietly. "I'm trying to understand why you acted as you did. Not in telling him, but in the other – in what you did …" His voice trailed off as the enormity of her actions caused him to choke on the words.

There was no response. He might just as well have been talking about some story in a newspaper or the plot of a novel. When he spoke again, he ironically echoed Jess's own words: "Catherine, how could you?"

"That, Mr. Sherman, is surely my business?"

The chill of her response warned Slim that his chance of obtaining the location of the baby's grave was slipping away from him like a storm-driven leaf sliding over ice. He bowed his head and acknowledged: "You had a right to act as you saw fit. I understand that. But there were other actions, other solutions."

As he said this, he knew his cause was doomed. Complete contempt and rejection of anyone else's rights transformed Catherine's face for an instant, before the mask of glacial indifference covered it once again.

"As I have just pointed out, it is none of your business."

"Very well. I admit that I have no right to ask. But if there was ever anything between us –"

"There was not!"

Slim looked at her, stunned by her complete denial of the past. But Jess's need was greater than his own heartbreak and humiliation. "If you have any pity then, any vestige of compassion, any feeling for the rights of that child, I beg you to tell me where his grave is!"

"I have not. I will not. And you, Mr. Sherman, of all people, have no right to ask me."

She stood up and swept towards the door, their meeting quite definitely over.

"Catherine!"

His voice arrested her as she pulled open the door. She stopped, looking back at him over her shoulder, as if she could not be bothered even to turn to face him.

"At least tell me the truth!" Slim demanded. "Was it his child – or mine?"

She looked at him with cold disdain and a smile of pure malice twisted her perfect lips as she replied softly: "Wouldn't you like to know!"

The door closed silently behind her. All that remained was a faint trace of perfume on the air.

 **\- # - # - # -**

Slim dropped back into the chair. His head bowed into his hands. His shoulders shook. He remained so for what seemed like a long time. He never knew how long. His stunned immobility was roused when the door crashed back against the wall.

An irate man strode into the room. His face was red with fury. His hair was standing on end. He flung his hat behind him into the hall and was shucking off his coat as he came. Not only did he succeed in getting rid of his coat, but even managed to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing brawny forearms. His fists were clenched.

The next Slim knew, one of those fists hit him square on the jaw, knocking him from the standing position which he had politely assumed on the man's abrupt entry. The blow sent him sprawling straight back into the chair from which he had just risen. This was perhaps fortunate, given all the other painful, not to say valuable, things in the room on which he might have landed.

The man obviously did not care about damage to the furniture or damage to Slim. He seized Slim by his vest, overturning the chair as he hauled him violently out of it, and landed another three punishing blows to the body. The attack was so unexpected that Slim's natural impulse to self-defense and his undoubted fighting ability were momentarily in abeyance. He did not need them, however, because the fight ended as abruptly as it had begun.

They stood face to face, both breathing hard.

The man snarled: "That's for upsetting my wife, disturbing my honeymoon, cutting me out when I was going to propose to her and keeping company with a damn card-cheat and killer!"

"Right." Four grievances and four blows. It took a second for Slim to process the statement and to realize that it had some justice – except for the last part.

"Sit down!" the man barked. It was more of a command than an indication of his hospitable intentions. Nevertheless, Slim righted the fallen chair and did so. The part of his head which was not smarting from the force of the first punch he had received was ready to seize any opportunity to find out more about Catherine's movements.

"I'm Deveraux O'Connell." The man did not offer his hand. He just sat down and yanked the bell pull.

Greaves must have been right outside the drawing room door, because he materialized instantly. "You rang, sir?"

"Two whiskeys!"

"Yes, sir." The butler moved swiftly out into the hall and returned almost immediately with a tray on which reposed two glasses and a decanter. He knew his master's moods well.

O'Connell poured a generous measure in both glasses and handed one to Slim. It was not actually what Slim wanted at this time in the morning, with an incipient headache and a sore jaw. Besides, he seemed to have been consuming an inordinate amount of alcohol in his travels and, although Jess would probably have egged him on with a mischievous grin, Slim felt it was not worthy of the seriousness of what he was attempting to do. Nonetheless, if drinking would put O'Connell in a better frame of mind, it was worth it.

Slim drank. As he did so, he took stock of his host. O'Connell looked exactly what he was: a shrewd and prosperous man of business, approaching middle age but as fit as a much younger man, hard-headed and tough the way an enterprising life had made him. But showing through it all was the shock-haired, bright eyed Irish lad who had dared everything and who, to Slim's empathetic eye, was deeply in love.

"Why are you here?" O'Connell asked when he had finished his first glass and taken an absent-minded refill. "Apart from annoying my wife, that is."

"I needed to talk to her," Slim replied honestly.

O'Connell frowned and then shook his head. "You of all people have good reason to stay away from her. I know what she was part of. And I guess I owe you an apology, because you didn't really cut me out – I was out of town when you came to St. Louis. In any case, Catherine was only following her uncle's orders."

Slim was considerably taken aback by this frankness. He had assumed that O'Connell, like every other man, had been swept away by Catherine's beauty and failed to see the core of egotism and unscrupulousness which lay beneath it. His thoughts must have shown in his face, because O'Connell answered his expression, rather than the opinion he had not given voice to.

"I know what she's like. I always did. I saw her when Nathaniel brought her to St. Louis – a wild, angry girl who would do anything to escape from her past and her heritage. Raw material to be shaped for Nathaniel's schemes! And so beautiful." He paused and smiled. "So beautiful. She could do anything. Have anything. She who had been raised with nothing. Small wonder it went to her head and corrupted her heart."

"She was raised poor?"

"Dirt poor!"

"Do you know where?" Slim was holding his breath.

O'Connell shook his head. "She would never talk about the past. She cut herself off from it like a surgeon amputating a limb with gangrene. She became what Nathaniel wanted – the perfect hostess, elegant, sophisticated, cultured, elite – bait for any fool they wanted to manipulate and make money out of."

"Fools like me," Slim found himself admitting.

But the other man shook his head. "You're a decent young man. You want the world to be honest and just and you're prepared to work and to risk yourself to make it that way. I'd lend money to you without a qualm!"

The compliment was unexpected. Slim murmured "Thank you," rather sheepishly. But O'Connell had not finished with his analysis.

"You are ready to think the best of people, and that's not always a virtue, if I may say so. It shows in your taste in friends."

Slim frowned and his eyebrows shot up. He was not prepared to compromise on anything when it came to Jess. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean Catherine found someone more akin to her than you or me. Someone just as cold and ruthless and cruel. Someone who has no scruple in taking what he wants. Someone who gives no value to other human beings. Someone with that fatal aura of power which stirs up desire as well as fear. You should be careful."

"Careful?" Slim's question came out in a choked protest.

"I knew him when he was younger. He's a great actor, a skilled deceiver. I've seen him cheat and lie and use people who had no idea what was being done to them and thought him entirely honest and trustworthy. I've seen him kill for nothing more than a whim or a careless word. I've seen him hurt with pitiless contempt those who cross him."

"I can't believe –"

"Believe me, I've seen it. Seen the same actions only a year ago, when he was working for Nathaniel. Why, he nailed a man's hand to the table with his knife, just for handling his cigar-case. He tortured the child of one of my bank clerks, simply to get information for Nathaniel. And then he walked away from the whole showdown as if it had nothing to do with him." O'Connell's scowl became ferocious once more as he thought about Jess. "He uses people. He used Catherine! He's using you."

Slim just could not accept what he was hearing. It was so totally at odds with his own experience of Jess. It was almost as if O'Connell had known someone completely different. _But he said that Jess was an actor, a skilled deceiver …_

Putting these sudden doubts firmly to one side, he concentrated instead on the man before him. "I'm sorry," Slim said quietly. "Sorry you've had to bear all this and still care for her."

"Care for her?" O'Connell burst out in unexpected laughter. "My dear young man, I am absolutely besotted with her. I would do anything in the world to give her the security and status she longs for, so that she does not have to submit to the likes of Nathaniel Sherman to get it. Whatever has happened in the past, the future is going to be better – better for Catherine, at least."

"And for you," Slim told him sincerely. "If I had my hat on, I'd take it off to you for being generous enough to marry her after everything that's happened."

"Including the child."

Slim was stunned into silence.

"Oh, yes, I know about the child," O'Connell said calmly. "Catherine told me when I finally got the opportunity to propose."

"She told you?"

O'Connell nodded. The moment was delicate. Slim wanted to respect the man's feelings, his amazing tolerance and his total devotion to the woman he had married. But he desperately needed to know the details.

"Yes, she told me when she came back. She wouldn't say yes or no before that."

"Came back from where?" Again Slim held his breath.

O'Connell shrugged. "Wherever she had been. She never told me. I didn't ask. She was so pale and drawn and quiet." His eyes closed as if he were sharing Catherine's pain. "The child was still-born. I think it mattered to her more than she would ever willingly admit."

Slim made no comment. O'Connell had enough to bear without knowing that Catherine was a lying murderess. Instead he said: "But she came back to you. She needs you. You help her move on." His own love for Catherine made hope rise in his heart that this mature, patient and generous man could make a real difference in her life and recall her to a better self.

"Yes. We're moving on. A new start. Catherine wants to get away from here completely. We leave tomorrow for San Francisco."

By some amazing providence, Slim had been able to make this contact before it became impossible. He sent up a prayer of thanks that it had been so. And another to accompany his next question: "Why does she dislike this area so?"

O'Connell shrugged. "She's never explained. But I figure it has something to do with her life before Nathaniel took her under his wing."

He looked grim as he said this and Slim hastened to change the subject. He stood up and held out his hand, for he felt he had gained an ally, perhaps even a friend. This was some consolation, even though he had found out only the slenderest hint of new information.

"I'm sure you'll make all the difference to her new life. Thank you, Mr. O'Connell, for what you've shared with me. That's made a difference for me too. I wish you both good luck!"

"I'll probably need it," O'Connell admitted with a grin, "but I'm willing to take a risk on it. Goodbye, Mr. Sherman."

O'Connell did not summon the butler to show Slim out, but instead walked with him to the front door, which he opened. Slim was half-way down the steps when he heard a last piece of advice.

"I take such a risk because I know Catherine through and through, Sherman. Take care that you have the same knowledge of your friend!"


	21. Chapter 21

.

.

.

 **21**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

"Jonesy?"

"Yeah?" The old cook startled from his doze by the fire.

It was a rare moment of quiet. Dan had carried Martha off for some time with her own family, Jonesy and Andy having insisted they could cope on their own for one night. Jess was still in his deep sleep, although Jonesy was pretty sure his patient did have increasing periods when he was conscious. But Jess did not give any sign of it and most of the time remained resolutely turned away from them all. So Jonesy had asserted that they could both spend an hour by the fire, with the door to the bedroom open. He needed to get Andy to understand that Jess was supported by his devotion whether they was in the same room or not. And, of course, that no matter how strong the will of those who love, no-one can hold back or alter the fate of another.

"What is it, Andy?"

"I was just thinkin'. When Jess came to St. Louis, he didn't come on his own. He would have, if he had to, but he didn't have to."

"Yeah?" Jonesy said encouragingly. He could not see what Andy was getting at, but he was prepared to listen.

"There were some people helping him. Cal and Vin, of course, but others too."

"Yeah. Warwick's Wolves, people call them. I ain't sure what they do or where they get their authority from, but they ain't gonna let evil walk unchecked!" Jonesy was quite surprised at the vehemence with which he made this pronunciation. He had no idea why, but he knew it was true.

"I know they'd help Jess." Andy was staring into the fire as if he could conjure up the mysterious ranks of the Ranulfiar. "They helped rescue Slim. D'you think they'll help Slim now?"

"They got the means and the men," Jonesy admitted, even more surprised that, in his concern for Jess, he had not thought of those who would give him unfailing support. "Let's just hope Slim had the sense to contact them!"

 **\- a - j - a -**

O'Connell's advice weighed heavy on Slim's mind as he made his way back to the hotel, a burden of doubt to add to all the mental struggle he had been through already. _The man had been so sincere_. And he spoke of what he had seen with his own eyes. Moreover, O'Connell had formed his opinion long before Jess came to the relay station: came as a gun-slinging stranger with close links to a member of one of the most notorious gangs in the territory and, beyond that, with a couple of Wanted posters sporting his face. The opinion of a man Slim had come to respect and admire, whom he believed to be honest, experienced and thoughtful, had to be taken into consideration against Slim's own knowledge from daily living with Jess.

All the time he was recalling what O'Connell had said, his fierce loyalty to Jess and his confidence in his partner were fighting against this apparent evidence. Underlying his thoughts and supporting his feelings was the knowledge that Vin and Cal shared them. On the other hand, by their own admission, the younger Jess had been wild and ungovernable, and they had taken him into a band of misfits which Slim now knew had a criminal element. That O'Connell disliked Jess intensely was unmistakable, but Slim had to admit it did not seem to arise from any kind of jealousy of Jess's affair with Catherine. Rather it had its basis in the very same values which Slim himself honored. In the light of those standards, cruelty, gratuitous violence, callous disregard for others, lying and deceit were all things Slim abhorred and condemned.

 _But he simply could not believe this of Jess. No matter how good an actor someone else asserted that he was. He trusted Jess. He must go on trusting!_

With such conflicting thoughts churning through his mind, Slim arrived back the hotel. There was no sign of Vin, who had presumably gone about his mysterious business of calling up local contacts and sources of information. Cal had already departed on the train for Cheyenne and Laramie, primed with reassuring messages for Jonesy and Andy. Slim knew they would be eagerly awaiting news from him, but there had seemed little point in sending them any when it was all negative. Now, at last, there seemed to be some hope, even if it was only the slender thread of information grudgingly disclosed by Nathaniel. Now Slim had a tiny scrap more. He needed to find Vin and pass this on immediately.

Finding one man in somewhere the size of Denver was a hopeless task. Vin could be anywhere from the Marshall's Office to one of the many brothels. Unable to contain his impatience, Slim made a detailed search of the main street and its various businesses but drew a blank. He dared not go too far afield, lest he miss Vin on his return. He considered trying to trace the registration of Catherine's birth or baptism, but the development of the town was too recent to allow orderly storage of records and Slim doubted, in any case, whether the family sired by Great Uncle Jethro would have bothered to bring a child into town to be baptized. Then it occurred to him, since Catherine wanted to escape from Denver and Millsap Springs might easily be in this region, that he had another resource at his disposal. He left a note for Vin at the hotel and made straight for Frazier's house.

Once more cordially received by his friends, Slim had called just in time for the midday meal. Pressed to join them, he found himself engaged in small talk with Mrs Frazier and Shirley which prevented him getting Mr. Frazier to bring his local knowledge to bear on the problem of the mysterious Millsap Springs. When the meal was over, however, Frazier bore Slim off to his study on the grounds that they had both had enough frivolous female conversation for the time being. Slim might have disputed that Shirley's conversation was frivolous, but figured Frazier's apparent indifference was just disguising fatherly pride in his daughter's accomplishments. In any case, Slim was delighted to have Frazier's undivided attention and immediately asked him if he knew of any such location as Millsap Springs _._

Frazier scratched his head and thought for a while. "You say it might have had a gold claim at one time?"

"Yes, but nothing very spectacular," Slim affirmed.

"The only place around here where gold was found in any noticeable quantity was Pike's Peak in '58, but nothing much came of it. The homesteads which were established then reverted to hand-to-mouth trapping, if they weren't abandoned completely.'

It all sounded very much like the kind of place Catherine had striven so hard and at such cost to leave behind. Slim was encouraged, although Frazier could provide no more details. At least it was a place to start, if Vin had not found out anything more substantial.

As if Slim's thoughts had conjured the man, there was a tap at the door. Mrs. Frazier poked her head round and addressed her husband: "Lieutenant Warwick is here and he hasn't come to see Shirley. He says he's looking for Mr. Sherman."

Almost at once, Vin was with them, apologizing to Frazier and urging Slim to accompany him post haste. They were scarcely outside the house when both of them spoke at once.

"I've got a lead!"

It turned out to be the same lead. Vin's contacts included an itinerant boot-maker and leather-worker, who visited many settlements across the territory. This man's local knowledge confirmed what Mr. Frazier had told Slim. It was profoundly to be hoped that Pike's Peak and the surrounding district would be Slim's final destination.

Vin, however, was not aiming to accompany Slim in this last stage of his quest. It was his intention, he stated, to follow Cal to Laramie and do whatever he could to ease the situations there. Once again, Slim felt that great concern and deep affection for Jess, which went far beyond the responsibilities of an ex-commander.

"If you can't find the answer," Vin pointed out quietly, "it's going to take all of us to pull Jess out of this." He laid his hand on Slim's shoulder for a moment, tacitly pledging his uttermost help. "We'll keep him alive until you get back. We say ' _Cut one, we all bleed_.' Trust us!"

There had been a time when Slim would not have trusted these one-time enemies, but experience had taught him how little difference there was between men who fought on opposite sides. Now he was just immensely grateful that Jess would be surrounded by people who cared for him and that Andy and Jonesy would have support from more than the doctor and their neighbors. He had no idea how bad Jess's mental and physical condition would be by this time, but both Cal and Vin had the strength to restrain, as well as to support him, if need be. Slim's conscience had been nagging him all along because he had had to leave Jonesy in charge of a patient who wanted to escape or die or accomplish both together. His only consolation was that Jess was almost certainly too weak to resort to the violence with which he had opposed Slim. And above all, Slim hoped that his promise to find the location of Jess's son's grave would remain in his friend's mind and keep him from further harming himself.

So it was that, before evening had fallen, Slim was on the road south. He could have traveled with Crispin, the boot-maker, in his wagon, but preferred to be riding in silence alongside. The Fraziers had lent him a mount, for he knew he would need to make his own way back to Denver, rather than expecting Crispin to deviate from his itinerary. Even guiding Slim to Pike's Peak was a diversion, but the man was an intense, free-spirited individual who seemed to live each day just as it came. When Vin introduced them, Crispin had expressed his willingness to help with the simple comment: "The Wolf-cub never told us the half of it. He needs to make an end to the story."


	22. Chapter 22

.

.

.

 **22**

.

 **\- a - j - a -**

"Cal!"

Andy barely held back from flinging himself into the arms of the man who had just stepped off the Laramie to Cheyenne stage, but his new-found maturity prevailed. Instead he opted for an outstretched hand.

"You came for Jess!"

"Yeah," Cal smiled. "I know you 'n Jonesy'll be takin' good care of him, but I figured he might need a little lickin' into shape as a patient. You got my strong arm with you!" By this time he'd grabbed Andy's hand and hauled him into a comforting hug anyway.

For the first time in over a week, Andy laughed. "You know Jess."

"He ain't the most co-operative of patients," Cal agreed. "You want me t' beat him up some?"

Andy shook his head, his new maturity even more evident. "I think he's been doing that himself."

"That figures," Cal agreed. "Then tell me what you need. I'm here to help."

Andy's face was entirely serious and adult as he admitted, "I don't know what any of us need, Cal. Jess included. I reckon the only thing we can do is keep lettin' him know we're here and we won't let him go."

Cal nodded. "We can do that. All of us, together. We're right alongside Jess, wherever he's travellin' in that mind of his, and we're bringin' him home!"

 **\- a - j - a -**

The journey took the best part of the next day. Crispin made camp some way short of their destination. He had no reason to drive further up the mountain and knew that the trail was clear for Slim to follow. There was only a little way to go.

When Slim set out the next morning, he was wearing a borrowed greatcoat against the chill of the wind and the mountain heights. He felt slightly light-headed and Crispin warned him to take things slowly because of the altitude. Such advice went hard against the urgent need to finish what he had set out to do, but he knew it was good nonetheless.

As he approached the mouth of the valley which Jethro Sherman had won in a game of cards so long ago, Slim was tense with anticipation. He did not know what lay ahead, although he could make a guess that it would be harsh and primitive. But if Catherine had indeed fled back to this, her origin, there must be people living here still. If she had not, his whole search was a hopeless failure. But to anticipate such a result was to waste time and effort. Better by far to find the answer swiftly.

Slim urged his horse on and rode boldly up the faint track and into the shelter of the surrounding mountain slopes. No wheeled vehicles and very few horses had come this way in recent times. As the valley opened out on either side of the stream which presumably rose from the Millsap springs, he saw the markings of old mining, abandoned and overgrown, but unmistakable. For the rest, there were signs too of attempts to maintain homesteads – scattered dwellings falling into disrepair, uncultivated vegetable patches, an old, withered orchard, pens which had once held animals, a ruined barn.

At first there was no sign that any humans still remained, but as Slim rode onward, a smell of burning wood drifted down the valley and he heard the faint sound of bleating. Presently the valley bent to the south and he came in sight of a low cabin, tucked in against the curve of the hill. A drift of smoke rose from the chimney and a couple of goats were tethered to nearby trees.

A single shot spat into the earth right in front of him and a harsh voice commanded: "Hold it right there, young man!"

Slim could see no-one at first, but then he realized that a small, elderly woman was half concealed behind one on the trees. She had a rifle lodged against a branch and he was somehow absolutely certain that she could blow his head off if she wanted to. In the interests of avoiding this, he hastily introduced himself.

"I'm Matthew Sherman. My Great Uncle Jetho lived here, I believe?"

"If'n y're one of those sanctimonious, scandal-fearin' Shermans who drove him out, y' can git right now!"

Another bullet slammed into the dust.

"I'm a cousin of Catherine Sherman," Slim said hastily. "I'm looking for her -"

"Well she ain't here!" the woman snapped. "Valley never was good 'nough for her, exceptin' when she proved no better'n the rest of us."

There was a third shot.

"So she was here?" Slim asked and then added hopefully, "Look, could we talk about this without you shooting at me all the time? Maybe if I dismounted and you came out from behind that tree?"

The woman gave a derisive snort, but she did not shoot again. "If I'd a dollar for every man who'd begged me t'go behind a bush with him, I'd be a rich woman," she stated. Then she gave a chuckle. "But y' look like a young man who knows what he wants. Why else would y' be followin' Catherine up here? And if the truth's spoken, the days are past when I c'd hold a candle to her looks."

She hefted the rifle from the branch and stepped out from behind the tree. Slim dismounted and was surprised to find himself faced with a woman whose one-time beauty was evident in the delicate bones of her face, lined though it was, and her silver-streaked hair, which was still thick and lustrous.

"C'm on up to the cabin," she invited with smile from which the years had not removed the underlying insinuation. "Ain't often I get a visit from a handsome young man."

Wondering what he had stumbled into, Slim took his seat on the bench against the cabin wall and presently found himself sipping a brew of something aromatic, which definitely wasn't coffee. He could only hope that whatever it was would not compound his problems with the rarefied atmosphere at this elevated height.

"'Tis just mountain herbs," the woman assured him, as if she could read his mind, and added surprisingly, "Ain't th'elixir of youth, but it keeps me healthy."

"I think Catherine came here for reasons of health," Slim ventured.

The old woman cackled with laughter. "Y' could say that."

"Did she come to you?" he asked daringly.

Another cackle. "Come to old Amelia? M'dear boy, she ain't never spoken to me. Never. Not in all the years." She paused, lost in thoughts of the past. After a while she went on unexpectedly: "He used to call me 'Mil', Jethro did. Said I was the only woman who wasn't a millstone round his neck! Swept me off the dance floor in Omaha and said I'd never need to favor other men no more." Again she paused. "Guess this valley wasn't really the place I had in mind for a romantic liaison with him, but we came to make our fortune and never moved on. When all's said and done, he was good to me and I've grown used to the place."

"But he left the valley to his nephew, Nathaniel," Slim blurted out. He could see that relationships among his kinfolk were more complicated than he had anticipated.

Amelia shrugged. "Man's gotta maintain the male line. Nat was a splinter from the old block – scheming, unscrupulous, fond of high livin'. Favored him over his own kids, Jeth did. Don't make no difference to me. Who's gonna turn out an old whore from livin' in a shack in the middle of nowhere?"

 _Nathaniel might, from sheer spite._ Slim did not give voice to his thoughts. Instead he pursued the information he had come to get: "So who did Catherine come here to see?"

A skinny finger pointed beyond them to further up the valley. Slim could make out quite a substantial building, log-formed like the rest, standing right at the head of the valley. "She went to her grandma, of course. To Bella, Jethro's wife."

"His wife?" Slim was astounded that any such person was still living, let alone in close proximity with the woman who had evidently been Jethro's mistress.

"Yeah. Not that he ever spent time with her much, except t' get a brood of brats who lighted out of here quicker'n they were born."

"Catherine's grandmother's still alive?" Slim reckoned he was sitting outside the wrong house.

Amelia shook her head vehemently. "Nope. The old girl passed a few months ago. Buried her right alongside o' the cabin. Reckoned she was never gonna get back to her family home, so it seemed best."

"You buried her?"

"Yeah. Ain't no-one left here now but me."

A stillness fell between them. Slim tried to imagine such a life, such relationships, culminating in two women, each linked to the same man, ending their lives alone in such a remote place. Imagination failed him.

"Bella took her in, of course. Catherine was always her favorite." It was impossible to tell whether Amelia felt contempt or pity for such a decision. "But Bella was never in any state to deal – was too much for her – reckon that's what killed her - strain and sorrow got to her in the end."

"Because the baby died too," Slim added. "It was tragic all round."

Amelia gave her characteristic cackle. "Oh, Catherine thought the baby died all right. It was what she wanted! Bella was afraid for her. Said she'd gone crazy, losin' her mind, threatnin' to kill the kid before ever it was born."

"But she didn't?" Slim hated pursuing such intimate information, but he knew full well that women did not have to bear the babies they were carrying if they did not choose to.

"She was afraid!" Amelia told him. "Afraid! An' I ain't blamin' her. There's doctors'll do it, but it's risky. Girls die. Too often."

Old bitterness and anger convulsed her face and Slim wondered what she had known in the past. He said gently, "So the baby was stillborn?"

"The baby was fine!" Amelia spat out. "Bella brought it over here, the moment it was born. Said Catherine was beside herself, wantin' to be rid of it. Told her to put it out on the mountain for the wolves, like they did in th'old tales."

"She brought the baby to you!" Slim was jaw-droppingly astounded.

Amelia nodded. "My niece was visitin'. Come to show old Amelia their new young 'un, their first. The girl was nursin'. She could well take another."

Slim's jaw could not drop any further. He wrestled with the implications of this statement and at last concluded: "Someone adopted the baby at birth."

"Not someone," Amelia corrected. "My niece. Sarah Morgan and her man."

"So the child is alive."

"Alive and thrivin', if Sarah has any say in the matter."

"But they don't live here?" Slim was prepared to ride the breadth of the continent, if only it would give his quest a positively happy ending. "Where then?"

"Back near civilization and the big city life," Amelia laughed a little wistfully. "Crystal Valley, on the way to Denver."

 **\- # - # - # -**

Nothing could be a greater contrast to Millsap Springs than the well-tended and fertile Crystal Valley, cradled in the outlying arms of the Rockies. Slim skirted a small lake and followed the path which threaded its way through a band of pines. Then a sloping meadow-land opened up, stretching away to another thick evergreen forest, sheltering it to the north. At the edge of this he could see the ubiquitous timber cabin, some outbuildings and a couple of fenced pastures. In one was a milking cow. There was cultivated land too, fringed by a little orchard of fruit trees and bushes. As he rode towards the place, a small herd of mixed sheep and goats edged out of his way but did not move far. In the distance, a dog began to bark.

A man came out of one of the smaller buildings, his rifle at the ready. He stood firm, watching Slim's approach confidently but warily. The valley was not on the way to anywhere and unexpected visitors would be suspect until proved harmless. When he was just within range of the rifle, Slim halted and dismounted. He walked the rest of the way, keeping his hands well in the open. Two large dogs ran towards him, but the man called them sternly to heel.

"Mr. Morgan?"

The man nodded and said: "Who's askin'?"

"I've come from your wife's aunt – from Amelia." Slim deemed it as well first to make clear the validity of his visit.

Morgan's rifle jerked and he took an involuntary step backwards as if to defend his home. At the same time the cabin door opened and a woman stepped out. She had evidently been listening and asked anxiously: "What's happened? Is she all right?"

Slim took off his hat and reassured her. "She's fine, Mrs. Morgan. She said to tell you so. Her exact words were: 'Tell her I ain't movin' from here till they move me into this earth'."

The woman responded with a laugh which also tearful. "She's such a stubborn old thing. I guess that's just what she'll do. But I dread visiting and finding she's gone her last way on her own."

"She wouldn't take any help when I offered," Slim agreed, "so I guess that's what she wants."

"Yes," the woman agreed. "But I'm forgetting my manners! I'm Sarah Morgan, and this is my husband, Tad. Please come in and take some refreshment, Mr –"

In all this, the man had not moved. Now he stepped swiftly between his wife and Slim. His chin went up and there was challenge in his eyes. "You'll be the baby's father!"

Sudden searing pain tore through Slim's heart. _Catherine had declared the child was Jess's, but there was also the possibility ..._ He longed to agree to that claim, but his honesty would not let him, not now. _Perhaps he would be able to, if it was clear who the baby favored when he finally saw him?_

Instead he told the simple truth. "I'm Matthew Sherman. I was engaged to marry Catherine Sherman-Gordon. We were only distantly related."

Tad Morgan glared at him. It was utterly clear what he thought about irresponsible fathers who abandoned their women and children. "You'll not take the little one from us!"

 _The little 'un._ The words magnified Slim's pain as he thought of the torment of guilt which Jess continued to bear. But not for much longer. This was a good place and good people: Slim could sense it, even read it in Tad's aggressive defense of his family. He shook his head. "I haven't come to do anything like that. Only to know that the child is safe and cared for."

"You doubt it?"

Slim shook his head again. "Not now. But you must understand I knew nothing about you except that Amelia trusted you."

"That should have been enough for you," the man told him bluntly. "She's a shrewd old bird."

"And she would not have told me where to come if she didn't trust me too," Slim pointed out.

At this, Sarah had had enough. "You men!" she admonished them. "Stop proving yourselves! Come inside, both of you. There's coffee and biscuit warming."

Tad gave a shrug, but accorded Slim a slight grin as he waved him on into the house. The main room was both kitchen and living room, but a door beside the chimney-breast obviously led to sleeping accommodation.

Sarah tilted her head in that direction and said with a smile, "They're sleeping now, but not for much longer. Sit down and drink your coffee."

Looking around, Slim could see the same evidence of hard work, skill and care which characterized the rest of the spread. The furnishings were simple, but neat, clean and practical. China sparkled and metal gleamed and all the linen was freshly pressed. He could see ample supplies of dried herbs, vegetables and preserved fruits, which he was sure Jonesy would take as a good sign. The coffee was strong and hot. The biscuit was fresh and excellent. Jess would definitely approve. It seemed very important to Slim then that he could bring home a good report of the family and the place which had taken in the rejected child.

It was only a short while before baby noises reached their ears. There was no intervening stage between awakening and a lusty roar which demanded attention! Sarah rose to her feet and went into the other room, where they could hear her laughing and saying: "You need feeding again already, little man?"

Definitely a son of Jess Harper!

Sarah came back, her arms full of a wriggling, yelling bundle. Slim was somewhat surprised. He didn't know much about babies, but this one looked rather large for two or three months. And its lung-power argued a single-minded determination and a very definite strength of character. _Like father, like son!_

"Here! You hold your noisy son!" Sarah deposited the baby in Tad's arms. He immediately got to his feet and began to pace the room, rocking the baby firmly as he did so and muttering soothing sounds at the same time. He had evidently had plenty of practice.

Completely taken aback at first, Slim remembered that Amelia had told him how the Morgans were able to adopt Catherine's child and make sure it lived, because they already had a new baby of their own. In a few seconds, Sarah would bring the missing child into his presence and Slim would know the truth. He got to his feet.

Sure enough, the other baby had awoken, but with none of the lusty yelling of the first born. Instead Slim could hear little noises, more like gurgling and chuckling. The child sounded happy. His heart rose.

"Now you can take this one, Mr. Sherman," Sarah told him, holding out a much smaller form swathed in a soft blanket. "Then I can warm up Levi's food."

Slim steeled himself to see the truth of this child's parentage and looked down. He gave a gasp of surprise and couldn't help himself as he blurted out: "Why, he looks just like any other baby!"

At this, both husband and wife burst out laughing. Sarah shook a finger at Slim and chuckled: "I sure hope you're a better judge when you do become a father, Mr. Sherman. But for now, you just hold her!"

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Gold was discovered in 1858 during the Pike's Peak Gold Rush in the vicinity of present-day Denver, but the deposits were small. After some lengthy scrutinizing of Google Earth, _Millsap Springs_ is based on _Millsap Creek and_ Crystal Valley is somewhere in the region of Crystal Peak, but both locations are otherwise entirely imaginary.


	23. Chapter 23

.

.

.

 **Part 3**

.

' _Time heals all wounds._

 _And if it doesn't, you name them something other than wounds_

 _and agree to let them stay.'_

Emma Forrest

.

 **23**

.

One final overnight train journey took Slim as far as Cheyenne. From there, he was able to pick up the first stage to Laramie. It was a better option than going on to Laramie by train, since Alamo would have been returned to the ranch over a week ago. And it would bring him directly to home.

 _Home! If only he had a connection with Jess like Cal and could know what he would find there!_

But there was no way to get news. He had been far from civilization and had made only the briefest of stops at the Fraziers to return the loaned horse on his return to Denver. There had scarcely been time for word to arrive from the ranch. As luck would have it, too, the stage-crew had not made the Laramie run in the time Slim had been absent and knew only rumors of Jess's illness. The other passengers were strangers to the territory.

After all the frustrations and dangers, disappointments and surprises of Slim's quest, by far the worst and hardest part was that journey from Cheyenne. Determined not to wear himself out with useless speculation, he tipped his hat over his eyes and composed himself sensibly to sleep. But he was a natural born worrier and in truth the jolting and swaying of the coach was no rocking cradle. And the thought of a cradle just brought him back to the child again.

His mind was still grappling with the implications of what he had found out when at last he fell into an uneasy doze. The doze slid into a kind of half-waking dream, which swiftly became nightmare from which he could not escape. He could hear Jess's voice, a very long way off and getting further and further away, although it never totally faded. He was saying - _torn – bleeding – I should have known! –_ over and over again. Sometimes his voice was almost drowned by the crackling of flames. At others it was underlaid by quiet sobbing ... that of a child ... the child Jess had been ... or the child he had fathered. The sounds went on and on, tormenting. Slim could see nothing but the blackness inside his eyelids. He was struggling to reach out in his dream, holding out his hands in the darkness, but his own voice was dumb. He could not call, could not give the good news. Something was gagging him. Some malice-filled force which was determined on destruction! He reached out frantically, trying to sweep it away, leaning far out over the blackness of the cold abyss …

With a sudden sensation of helpless falling, Slim jerked back to consciousness. Sweat was pooling under his hat-band and his hands were shaking. _If this was what it was like for Cal, he wanted no part of it!_ Weary beyond belief, he eased his stiff body into a more comfortable position and hoped that he had not given any sign of his dreams to the other passengers. He looked out of the window.

Already the road was achingly familiar. The last few bends, the final slope, the long run down from the ridge to the relay station, slowing for the halt, but with no Jess holding out a hand to test the driver's precision in stopping …

"You're home!"

It was Andy, as he abandoned the horse he was leading and flung himself into Slim's arms with that heart-wrenching cry. But not before he had tossed the reins to Cal, who went on placidly changing the team. Slim smiled. Even in the most emotional of circumstances, Andy disciplined himself to take his responsibilities seriously, like the true Sherman he was.

"Yes, I'm home."

"Is it ok?" Andy let him go and stood back, braced for bad news.

Jonesy must have heard Andy's yell, because he had emerged from the kitchen. Vin halted on the porch where he had come out to welcome the passengers inside. Cal stopped unhitching the horses, his hands absently caressing and soothing the restless animals. The crew were transfixed on their seats. The passengers made no move to descend. Time stood still.

"Yes. I found the answer and it's a good one!" Slim told them, a broad grin at last lighting up his face.

"Yippee!"

Andy flung himself in for another hug. Cal slapped Slim on the back. Vin hastened to pump his hand up and down as if intending to shake it off. Jonesy stood still by the kitchen door.

Slim put Andy gently off and strode swiftly over to his old friend and mentor. "Thank you! You kept him alive!"

"Had some help," Jonesy pointed out, then his voice faltered. "Glad y' ain't left it any longer. He's quiet but he ain't sleepin'. Like he's waitin' for some end. Y' just about in time, I reckon."

The old man swayed and Slim put both arms around him in a gentle, supporting hug. "Thank you, Jonesy, from the bottom of my heart."

"Yeah, well, git on and give him the answer," Jonesy ordered gruffly. "But not too quick. I got some cookin' to do. This is the only time in recorded history when Jess Harper ain't eaten a proper meal in two weeks!"

The reminder had them all laughing rather hysterically as the tension which had bound them for so long was released. The crew too smiled with shared relief, even though they did not know the significance of Slim's statement. The passengers looked pretty baffled, but they were not abandoned. Discipline reasserted itself swiftly.

"To your duties, gentlemen," Vin reminded them. "We've got a relay station to run."

 **\- # - # - # -**

Slim stood once again looking down at his partner. Despite Jonesy's words of warning, he had not anticipated the impact that so many days of starvation and sickness would have on Jess. This was not the strong, virile, mature partner he had known and shared his life with. It was as if the fever had whittled away the years as well as the weight from Jess. He looked slender rather than lean, a boy rather than a man. A sleeping child, worn out by burdens beyond his years, craving only the ultimate relief of death.

Slim laid his hand gently on the dark, tangled hair. His hand shook.

He had sent all the others away. Hard though it was, after all they had done, he needed this time alone with Jess. Time for them both to know the truth and share it in honesty. So he had suggested a day of freedom in Laramie for the faithful attendants and an overnight stay without the responsibilities of nursing and watching which they had shared for so long. Probably Jonesy and Andy would have resisted, but Cal and Vin were charmingly persuasive. Slim saw in their eyes an understanding of what he and Jess needed. He was very thankful.

Now he had twenty four hours to bring Jess back to sanity. Twenty four hours to undo the damage seeded and grown over the last twelve months. Twenty four hours to pluck away the thorns of guilt and grief and plant something new and good.

Slim drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now he had to recall Jess to consciousness, to rouse him from his passive sleep and lead him back to the light of a world and the life he had chosen to abandon. _No small task_ , Slim thought wryly, _given Jess's usual attitude to being woken up in the morning!_

This needed drastic action. He leaned down, slipped his hands under Jess's arms and hauled him upright into a sitting position. It was only with considerable restraint that he did not administer yet another good shaking. That could come later!

"Wake up! I've found the child!"

Jess started violently and struggled to rise, but Slim pushed him firmly back against the pillows. The sick man's first reaction to this good news was hardly propitious.

"I can't stay here!"

"You aren't going anywhere. You're too weak."

"I've gotta go, gotta save Andy! Must leave!" He thrashed impotently against Slim's restraining hands as anguished words tumbled out of him. "I'm no good for anyone. Gonna bring pain and destruction on you – on Andy!" His voice shook with horror. "Should never have stayed! Ain't never had a home and there's none here for me now."

"Rubbish!" Slim retorted. "This is your home and this is where you're staying. Where we all want you to be."

Jess's eyes widened in amazement and his breath caught in his throat. "But I betrayed you. You personally. You can't trust me!"

Slim sighed and risked the usual and long-overdue shaking, although his hands and the movement were infinitely gentle. In that moment, he put aside all his own pain and jealousy and all the doubts which O'Connell had sown in his mind. "I can. I trusted you long before this all started. When I made that will, I made it because I trusted you absolutely. I still trust you. Someone else's treachery isn't yours."

"But you don't know what I did." Jess's eyes fell, unable to meet his friend's, charged as his heart was with the knowledge of all that had happened.

"Yes, I do. For a start, you told me, up in the line shack. And what d'you think I've spent the last two weeks finding out?" Slim waited until Jess looked up again and met his eyes. "She lied to you, Jess. Catherine lied."

"What! But –"

"She lied," Slim repeated. "She wanted to hurt you as badly as she could. Looks like she succeeded."

His heart was torn with savage and double pain. Pain for the suffering he had undergone when he discovered how casually Catherine had betrayed him and how contemptuously she thought of him. Pain for the way in which she had used all that was best in Jess, the thing he cared for most deeply, to inflict a wound which had nearly proved fatal. Impulsively, he leaned over and put his arm round his friend, drawing him into a hard, strong hug of comfort. They had both believed they had suffered the most terrible of losses, but at least he knew there was also hope.

He hastened to tell Jess the truth. "The baby didn't die. Catherine didn't kill it, although she intended to."

Jess stared at him, his eyes dark with misery – still - and unshed tears. Then he drew a shaky breath. "He's … alive?"

Slim smiled and nodded. "Yes, but not exactly. _She's_ alive."

"A girl!" Jess was just as dumbfounded as Slim had been. "But she said –"

"I guess Catherine used the circumstances however it suited her," Slim explained. It had taken him some thought to realize how and why those lies had been told. "She told you she had killed a male child. She told O'Connell, the man she's just married, that the child was still-born. She told me we had no relationship and to mind my own business!" He had to stop because the pain was too much.

Jess's hand came up and covered Slim's, which was still resting on his shoulder. "You talked to her about it?"

Slim nodded.

Jess's hand tightened on his and he whispered: "That must have hurt y'. Hearin' her say it." He gulped down a savage groan and said: "I'm sorry … so sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize to me for," Slim told him firmly. "We both know Catherine is entirely self-centered and heartless. Neither of us was the only man in her life. Now try to think with that brain of yours for once, not with your heart. What makes you so sure it was your child?"

There was a long pause. Jess's face was quite expressionless, as it always was when he thought about Catherine. It was frightening to see even the anguish and self-condemnation wiped away, leaving no trace of any human feeling.

Presently he drew in a breath and said quietly and calmly, "You were gonna marry her. You had the right. No-one else."

Slim smiled grimly and said, "I doubt very much whether she or any of her other conquests would have taken such a right into consideration."

"I did," Jess told him simply. "And I betrayed you."

"Damn it all, Jess – will you stop saying that!" Slim looked as if, in the face of such persistence, he was going to do something a lot more drastic than shaking Jess. "I need you to put that guilt down. To leave it behind. To live and be true to yourself! To know where you belong."

It took a lot to make Slim swear – Jess knew full well. He leaned back against the pillows and tried to process all that had just passed between them. The fact that Slim didn't condemn him. That the child was alive. That he maybe had a daughter. That all this did not change the past. But it could and did touch the future. He heaved a sigh, not so much of relief or acceptance, but just because his lungs had been empty of a real breath for so long.

When Jess looked up it was, for the first time in many days, with that crooked half-smile which tugged so at Slim's heart. "Ok," he said simply and with utter sincerity. "Thank you!"

"And can I trust you to stay put in that bed now you're conscious? Not to make any rash attempts at riding away into the Big Open?"

Jess grinned and nodded slowly.

"Come on – I want your word. I want to hear you say it!" Slim demanded with ruthless affection.

"I'll stay."

"Why?"

"Because you all want me to stay."

"Why? Come on, say it, darn you!"

"Because I belong here."

"And?"

"Because this is my home."

"And?"

"And my family."

Slim gave a gasp which was half-laugh, half-sigh. "Honestly, Jess, sometimes getting sense out of you is like trying to ride herd on a wild cat! Now just reassure me again – what can I do?"

"You can trust me. I give you my word. I won't try to run away again."

Slim burst out laughing this time and told him, "You are an idiot! Where did you think you were going to run on a broken leg?"

"What?" Jess's eyes widened and he stared at the frame keeping the weight of the bedclothes off his splinted leg, which he had obviously only just noticed. He scowled. "Darn'd doc! What's he been givin' me that I can't feel it?"

"He didn't need to give you anything," Slim told him. "You've been more or less out for the count with a high fever for about a week and then apparently you just refused to wake up and face the world. Mind you," he added with a chuckle, "that's no different from any normal morning, is it?"

The sound of their laughter filled the bedroom and spilled out into the homely warmth of the ranch house.


	24. Chapter 24

.

.

.

 **24**

.

After ten days or so of helping to keep the relay station running in a way which befitted its reputation, Vin and Cal departed south to take up their officially unofficial duties elsewhere. Jonesy grumbled and moaned that he was chained to the stove by Jess's recovering appetite, but was secretly delighted at this evidence of his return to health. Andy zipped through his chores and his schooling with a grin of joy permanently plastered across his face. Visitors came and went, calmly or boisterously affirming their delight in Jess's recovery, according to their different temperaments.

Slim quietly took back the reins of steadfast management of the relay station. The only traces of his long quest were the scars of the knife-fight and those would fade in time, although his determination to do something about the fate of the weak and most vulnerable in the penitentiaries would not. He had recounted his adventures to the others and he and Jess had made plans to visit the Morgans and to check up on Amelia. But with Jess needing to regain health and strength, this could not happen immediately. Slim was content to let things take their natural course, now that they had found some peace again.

He was surprised therefore when, one dry and relatively warm day in late October, Jess made a particular and specific request. He was still not able to walk very far. Slim brought the wagon round, lifted Jess in, much to his partner's disgust, and drove them both up to the lake. He pulled up right next to the 'No Trespassing' sign where he had first encountered Jess.

"This right?"

"Yeah. Perfect."

With some maneuvering, and vain protests from Jess that he could perfectly well manage by himself, they were both seated with their backs against the very log where Slim had found Jess dozing with his hat over his eyes three years ago.

"Never should have let y' get so close to me!" Jess reminisced. "Must've taken to y' right away, 'cause it ain't everyone I hand my gun over to."

Slim grinned. "I suppose the fact that I had a rifle pointed at you had nothing to do with it?"

"Would you have shot me?"

"Definitely! If I'd known how aggravating you were going to be."

"Aggravatin'?" Jess gave full rein to the Harper 'who-me-I-am-totally-innocent' expression. "Just remind me of that next time y' need your back watchin'!"

"I don't need to remind you to back me up," Slim told him softly. "You've done it many times, right from the second Bud Carlin walked into the house. And don't protest!" he added firmly. "Even if you hadn't, one time would pay for all. You risked everything to come to St. Louis and rescue me."

"That's what I want to talk about."

"I thought we'd settled it."

Jess shook his head. "There are some things which can't be settled or paid for. Some things I still need to tell you, need for you to know."

"Ok. Is this about Catherine?"

"Yes. I came to St. Louis mainly to find out what she was like. I wanted to make sure she'd care for Andy - thought maybe something had stopped her comin' to be with him when they took him away. I just needed to know that she understood how much you meant to each other. But I didn't dare go to St Louis as myself. It was obvious from the start that they'd decided to get rid of me." His shoulders hitched involuntarily, recalling, even after all this time, what had been done to him that night. "But I thought if I could get into their social circle and have a chance just to see her with Andy, I'd know – know if she had any feelings for him at all." He stopped abruptly as he lived again those days of numbing loss and fear for Andy. Then, taking hold of his emotions with a fierce effort, he continued: "It was obvious, right from the start - from the very second she shook my hand at the wake."

Slim forced himself to say it: "You fell in love with her. I know. She's very beautiful ... And very charming, when she wants to be."

Jess started at him in amazement. "In love?" He sounded as if he was going to be sick. "I thought y' knew me better than that. You know I can't stand that kind of woman!"

"Just figured you were afraid of them," Slim told him bluntly. "But there's always a first time!"

"No there ain't!" Jess snapped. "Y' can ask Eleanor how I felt, if you don't believe me."

"Not at the risk of inviting Cal's wrath!" Slim joked, trying to ease the tension.

Jess was momentarily diverted from his tale and his expression softened as he said quietly, "Yeah, she deserves a good man." Then he gathered himself to go on: "So, I was with Eleanor Frobisher, as her escort - a woman who has more loyalty and generosity in her little finger than Catherine will ever have in her whole life! Catherine made play to break that up straight away - before we'd ever exchanged more'n a couple of words."

He stopped again, his disgust clear on his face, and Slim recalled how Jess hated anyone trying to maneuver him against his will. "It was obvious she'd had her own way all her life an' she wasn't gonna take 'no' for an answer. So," - a bitter smile twisted his lips - "I decided to string her along, play hard to get, as you might say. That way I figured I might be able to become an insider, one of the family, and do something to help Andy. 'Cause he was nowhere to be seen and Jonesy'd been sent off right after the burial. Andy had no-one. No-one when he'd lost you -"

Jess's voice cracked, choking with pain. Slim felt a responsive gulp seize his own throat. Instinctively he reached out and put his arm round the taut shoulders of his companion. "I know. I lay there petrified about what would happen to him - about the pain and shock because they'd told him I was dead - and I didn't know if you would be able to take care of him."

"I promised. I would never, ever let anything happen to Andy!"

"Yeah. I know. And I know a bit about why now. I know that's the reason you tried to leave this time. You were afraid of repeating what happened long ago."

Jess nodded, his eyes full of the agony of this old tragedy. "The little 'uns. Ain't nothin' I can do about them dying. Guess havin' time to do nothin' but think I've come t'understand that the past is just that – the past. I know now I just gotta bear what I did. Learn to live with it. Not make the same mistake again."

"You won't," Slim reassured him, thinking of the huge burden of responsibility which had fallen upon the shoulders of a thirteen-year-old boy. "You're a lot older now and you've lived through some mighty tough experiences. You've come through them understanding the consequences. You would never deliberately let any kind of harm come to a child. That's why I have faith in you bringing up Andy, if you have to."

Jess nodded. "Andy's special in himself. Knew the first time I set eyes on him - just a kid, but ready to take on the world with that big heart of his." Jess paused and looked over at Slim. "Took me some time t' realise where he gets it from."

"Ma!" Slim said immediately.

Jess grinned and told him firmly, "Like you ain't been settin' him any kind of example these last few years?" He watched, even more amused, as Slim's face flushed with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. After a bit, Jess took up the story again: "I guess parents are bound to make a difference and maybe, from what you discovered, it ain't surprisin' Catherine turned out like she did an' just took whatever she wanted. Right from your funeral, she decided she wanted Caine Warwick."

"Who?" Slim was baffled.

"That's who she thought I was – Caine Warwick - Vin's rotten, no-good cousin." Jess chuckled inwardly at the memory of the moment when he had caused the jaw of the cool, controlled Stewart Vincent St John Warwick to drop in amazement, but he could see Slim was having a hard time grasping this new information. "I made Vin 'adopt' me. We knew Caine was in prison in England, so it was worth the risk. Anyway, I had some help to change what I looked like – he 'n I are much of a height and build, got the same coloring too. And no-one - not even that bastard, Bradley - recognized me."

"Catherine didn't know who you were?" There was an indefinable tone in Slim's voice. He had never thought much about exactly what Jess had done to rescue him – he had been too badly injured on his return home and, when he finally recovered, the demands of daily life had simply taken over. But somehow, all through the long aftermath of the events in St. Louis, he had been certain that Catherine knew the real Jess, knew him like any other girl who'd fallen for him over the last couple of years – and there had been plenty of those. Slim had wanted to feel that Catherine had responded to the man, the friend, he knew so well.

Jess looked at him curiously. "No-one knew. Not until the very end, when we finally rescued you. They thought I was their kind an' I did some things which made 'em think like that." A grimace twisted his face. "Some of it was staged. But not all an' I ain't proud of that. I just had to do what was necessary. Especially when I worked out that accident of yours was a fake. Didn't seem so bad, lying to them, when I knew they'd lied so publicly to the whole world!"

"She didn't know!" Slim repeated.

" 'Course she didn't! You don't think she walk on the same carpets as someone like me, do y'?" An old wound was opening up. "Y' must know how hell-proud she is of her status."

"Yeah," Slim admitted, not wanting to hurt his friend even more but being his usual truthful self.

"She thought I was part of the Warwick dynasty," Jess was half-scowling, half-laughing. "An' they all thought I was a cold hard bastard."

Slim recalled instantly what O'Connell had said about Catherine finding someone akin to her – cold, ruthless and cruel. Someone she was more attracted to than either Slim or O'Connell himself. Someone who was admitting to it now.

Jess had paused again, looking at Slim, waiting until their eyes locked and did not waver. "I was really that man," Jess said softly. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. That's why I asked you to bring me out here."

Slim's blood ran cold. "I don't understand." But part of him did and his instinct was confirmed when Jess went on speaking.

"This is where we first met. Then, you didn't know anything about me. And you didn't much like what you saw, did y'?"

Slim huffed a laugh, but was forced to admit: "I thought you were a cocky young saddle-tramp – dangerous and unscrupulous - and we'd be better off if you moved on." He laughed properly and added: "How wrong can you get?"

"Not so very wrong," Jess told him firmly and truthfully. "I've done things you would never consider, things which would never even enter your mind. Some of them were just over a year ago. I want to talk about that - just the two of us, out here where it all began. An' I want you t' listen - just listen an' hear me out, 'cause I have t' talk through these things."

"Things like nailing a man's hand to the table?"

"Bradley's hand. And yeah – I did, but how'd you know?"

"O'Connell told me. He said some pretty bad things about you." Things which Slim had wrestled with. Things he had compared to his own knowledge of Jess. Things he was not prepared to believe without a very good reason.

"It's true. Now just hear me out, like I asked y'. Then you can decide what you wanna do."


	25. Chapter 25

.

.

.

 **25**

.

As Jess's request hung in the air between them, words almost visibly glowing with the passion in which they were spoken, Slim remained silent. He had decided a long time ago, when he first made his offer of a job on the road home from Baxter's Ridge and the rounding up of the Carlin gang. He had not looked back. And he had trusted Jess enough to make him Andy's guardian. The time for decisions was long past, but he recognized Jess's need to give him a choice. He allow some minutes of that silence to pass before he said: "I'm listening," and prepared himself to hear his friend and partner out.

"To do what I had to do, I had to become someone else. I had to be Caine Warwick. To think like him. Judge like him. Act like him. And behave towards women like him." Jess paused and scowled. "It ain't any excuse for what I did, but it goes a bit to explain it."

"I've already told you how I feel about that!" Slim said crossly. "Have you been listening at all?"

"Yeah. You told me an' I heard all right!" A sudden and very sweet smile of pure relief lit Jess's face. It vanished just as swiftly as his expression went blank and, sure enough, his next words were: "So did Catherine - told me what she thought of me. And I reckon she's just as entitled to her opinion."

Slim nearly bit his tongue off, struggling to keep back his judgement of Catherine's vindictive cruelty and what she had deliberately put Jess through. But he had promised to listen. He just said: "That wasn't you."

"You sure about that?" Jess's expression was still carefully emotionless. "Slim, there are a lot of things y' don't know about me, even now. But you've been there when people've turned up from my past and things ain't always gone smoothly. Times you'll have wished I'd think an' act like you. But I never do, do I?"

Slim nodded, acknowledging the differences between them and the inevitable tension this must cause.

"You know a bit about where I come from now," Jess told him. "Even without the war, there's been enough dark times and places and people in my life for actin' like Caine Warwick to come naturally. Yeah - don't try to make it better. He's what I could so easily have been if you hadn't taken a risk on a cocky young saddle tramp that day."

Slim shook his head. "I didn't take a risk on anything which wasn't already true in you."

"You acted on what you saw of y' own values in me," Jess said gently. "You see what's good in people."

Slim was vividly reminded of O'Connell's compliment and of his opinion of Jess. He was still not fully able to reconcile such a very different picture of Jess with his own, even if Jess himself seemed to be implying it was true. Following his own train of thought, he said: "O'Connell told me he'd known you before you came to Laramie."

Jess frowned. "I ain't never come across him until that game of cards at Nathaniel Sherman's."

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Ain't hardly ever forgotten a face, even if I couldn't see him too well that evening. And I sure as hell don't forget the way a man plays his cards!"

"He was certain he knew you. He quoted incidents you'd been involved in."

"He don't know me – then or now," Jess repeated firmly. "In St. Louis, he didn't even see me properly. The card room was dark, only a light over the table - y' could see people's hands and the cards, not their faces. He thought I was Caine Warwick. Now Caine, yes, he might have come across him sometime."

"Of course!" Since Slim had only just found out about Jess's impersonation of Caine Warwick, no wonder he had felt that he and O'Connell were talking about two different people. They had been! Enormous relief washed over him and nearly drove him to tears. He had hung on so long to his trust in Jess, through all the pain and betrayal and accusation he had encountered along the way. It was a priceless gift to know that his feelings were right. A huge shuddering sigh left him as he said determinedly, "I'm darned well going to put O'Connell right! Else your name'll be mud from here to California!"

He managed a grin as he said this and Jess chuckled too, before adding: "More'n it is already?" His tone became serious once again as he went on: "That's what I'm tryin' to tell y', Slim. It ain't all make-believe, not by a long shot."

"Some of it is, so I guess I'll have to be your fairy godmother and use a spell to put the facts right out there," Slim teased, but Jess continued to look resolute and unemotional.

"A priest's needed more than a godmother."

Slim's eyebrows lifted enquiringly.

" _For though thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord God_ ," Jess quoted softly.

There was a brief silence. But some amusement colored Jess's voice as he added: "Soap and water've never played a big part in my life. But it's a good picture of how I feel. Like I'm stained. Like I need a powerful washin'. Father Paul had a long word for it. 'Ab .. ab-ser ..." Jess struggled with the memory, then went on confidently: "Absolution', that's what he called it. Washin' away evil. As a kid, the idea stuck in my mind."

"Father Paul?" Slim queried tentatively. His partner was never very forthcoming about his background and Slim had probably found out more in the last two weeks than Jess had revealed in three years.

"Old Catholic priest – at least, he seemed old to me then," Jess explained. "We got sent to him to get some schoolin', but what I remember best are the stories - some of the ideas too and the sayings."

Slim called to mind many quiet evenings with Jess spinning Andy yarn after yarn from a really surprising variety of sources. Knowing his bible sayings just as well, he contributed: " _Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow_. There's plenty in the good book about getting rid of stains."

"Yeah, well, we ain't got any nitre nor hyssop and no soap up here neither. Talkin' to you - givin' you the choice - is part of washing it away."

"I'm listening."

Despite their diversion into the exploration of identity and absolution, this was ultimately about Catherine, Slim realized. Yet he could now see more, far more than just the outward relationship they were discussing. In the depths of Jess's eyes, he could recognize a man driven by overwhelming loyalty to complete a pledged task by methods which revolted his true being. And, with sudden insight, he understood that Jess became totally emotionless when he spoke of Catherine because it was the only way he could bear the appalling price of what he had done.

A price which Jess was determined to extract from himself. Despite his damaged leg, he was taut as a wild cat ready to leap. His expression was still utterly unemotional, but his eyes glinted fleetingly with a purely feral light. Slim guessed he was reliving the necessity of becoming Caine Warwick.

Jess's next words confirmed this. "A man can't become another unless they share something. Not if folks are goin' to be convinced – folks he'll live with, day in, day out." He looked as Slim and Slim inclined his head, accepting and understanding because he too had had to live a part in Defiance prison. "I said you took a chance on me because you saw something of your own values in me. I want y' to hold hard to those values now, while y' listenin' to what I have to tell."

"Ok." Slim was vividly reminded of O'Connell's warning against his natural instinct to look for the best and the appeal the older man had thereby made to their shared standards. Now Jess was uttering the same kind of warning. Slim knew he himself rejected lying and cheating, yet he also knew that Jess had had to do this to rescue him. So Jess's next words seemed to hammer home this lesson.

"I wasn't brought up, any more'n you were, to use people. I've been glad of the folks along the way who've given me more help than I sometimes deserved, but I was brought up to stand on my own and to rely on no-one for anything. So deliberately settin' out to deceive and use someone was …" He stopped as if searching for the right words, and then said unexpectedly, "It was not as hard as you'd imagine. I've been around plenty of people for whom lyin' and cheatin' and takin' any advantage they could was the smart way to live."

Slim had been around those people too, in the prison which he could not forget and which, deep in the heart of his integrity, he knew he had to take some action over. But not now. Now he was thinking about the contrast between those people and the Jess in whom he had put his total trust. He had been vividly aware of this during his incarceration and he knew the difference between the conscienceless inmates and Jess was real. If only Jess could see that too!

"I've had plenty of examples," Jess continued, "and when times get hard, it's difficult not to follow them. When that letter came … it was so hard!" His voice almost broke, but he mastered it. "In that time, I didn't care. I didn't care what they did to me or what I had to do to them, as long as I could find out what had happened to you and be able to protect Andy. I didn't care about the rights of anyone else. I shut down to a cold, hard, ruthless being – just like Caine Warwick. I became him. I knew what I was doin', but I didn't stop, not even for one second, to consider anything except that I was goin' to get to the bottom of it and get revenge!"

At the last word, Slim felt a jolt go right through him. Rescue he understood. Revenge was another matter. It was the reason he had stopped Jess beating the life out of Reuben Bradley.

"So I didn't care about Catherine. She set out t' rope me in so Nathaniel could use me. I turned that against her. I used her selfishness and determination to have her own way. I was just as selfish 'n stubborn goin' after what I wanted. I deliberately let her throw herself in my way when I had no feelin' for her. I was no better than she was. But I didn't run the risks she did. I rode away. She had to stay and bear the consequences. From what you found out, she suffered a lot." He saw Slim's instinctive denial and insisted: "Yes, she did. It ain't the same for a woman, y' know that. She was alone and desperate. I don't blame her if she wanted to kill that child and thought she had. God knows, she never asked to bear it."

"But she used –"

"Yeah, she turned it into a weapon," Jess agreed. "She was strikin' back with all that was left to her. The only power she had after I'd made sure there was nothing left of the life she knew. That's why I believed what she said. It was plain she hated me so much and with good cause."

"But –"

"There ain't no buts, Slim. I did what I did. Lyin', cheatin', cruelty, deception, usin' people, usin' a woman, because it got me what I wanted. That's what you need to know. That's what you're takin' a chance on again. That's why we're here, where we started. I gave you my word I won't choose to go. But you still have the right to send me away."

There was no doubt in Slim's mind, less than none, despite all he had been through. But Jess raised his hand to stop him from answering immediately. "You have the choice. Think about it."

Slim lifted his eyes and looked out over the calm lake. He owed it to Jess to take seriously this choice offered so unequivocally to him. He took the time to think. And as he thought, he remembered the now familiar Texan drawl mocking him about the price of water. And jack rabbits! How easily Jess had disarmed him. And if he hadn't, what would Slim have done next? What would the future of that decision, that action, have been like? Would he have driven Jess off the ranch? Where would Jess have gone in pursuit of the man from whom he intended to extract his revenge? How would Slim have fared against Bud Carlin without him?

It didn't matter really, though, because it was what he did next _now_ which counted.

When Slim spoke, it was not immediately of the choice he had been asked to make. Instead he said: "You weren't the same when you came back from St. Louis. I didn't take much notice. I'm sorry."

"Guess you might have had something else on y' mind and body," Jess pointed out wryly.

"You were suffering too," Slim went on. "You were carrying the burden of what you'd done, of what you've just told me. I think you were half ready then to quit on account of it, but you didn't."

"Yeah." Jess's appreciation was a soft whisper. "It was like a deep wound with a thorn buried in it, festerin' and yet tryin' to form a scar –"

"And now you've paid ten-fold for it. If you think your past contained a darkness, that dark past has been used to punish you terribly. It's enough. Let it be now."

Slim looked at Jess with understanding and acceptance. Jess looked back with an amazed and deep affection before his head ducked sideways, averting his gaze as he always did when wrestling with strong emotion. When he finally looked up again, he was ready for Slim's next question.

"Can we put the past to rest?"

"Yeah. For you 'n me, yeah. If that's what you choose. But I still gotta find peace with Catherine somehow and set it right between the two of us. There's no knowin' when or how that'll be, but - yeah – if you're clear about what the past means, it's enough."

"We'll live with it so it won't scar the future - if you just hang on to the fact that your place, your home, your family, is here."

"Yeah. I reckon I can do that!" The lop-sided smile was back again. Jess sighed a deep and contented breath, before quirking an eyebrow in Slim's direction: "So, you ain't pointin' that rifle at me again?"

"No, I reckon you'll stay put without."

For the first time in the conversation, they both relaxed back against the old tree-trunk. Jess shifted so that his damaged leg was more comfortable and tipped his hat over his eyes. He looked almost exactly like he had done on their first day, except that he was better fed, his clothes were considerably cleaner and his attitude a lot less mocking. He must have been remembering too, because he murmured: "Y'know what's odd? Trav never warned me you were comin' that day. Must've fallen for Alamo straight away!"

"Hmmm." Slim thought of the two equine friends whom they had left peaceably sharing a bundle of hay in the corral. "Love? Nope. That horse just has the sense to recognize reliability when he sees it."

"Just like me, wouldn't y' say?"

"You? Sense?" Slim snorted. _How many instances had he had to the contrary!_

"Yeah, all your good habits are rubbin' off on me. If I stay on here, I'll end up bein' a sensible, domesticated old man!"

"That'll be the day!" Slim grumbled under his hat.

Neither of them could see the other's face, but both their hearts swelled with thankfulness for all which had grown from their first, most unpromising meeting. It boded well for all which would grow from the second chance they had taken together now … for the future. A companionable silence settled upon them. The long rays of the afternoon sun bathed them in warmth and the gentle lapping of the lake was another kind of washing for the soul.

Presently, mindful that Jess was not long out of his sick-bed, Slim asked, "How're you doing?"

"Gettin' a crick in my neck again!"

"And I'm getting stiff!" Slim rolled over, got to his knees and stretched.

Jess pushed back his hat and nodded. The same mischievous grin which had so annoyed Slim on that first day ghosted across his lips. "You're gettin' old."

"Right! In that case, I'm too old to pull you to your feet. You can just stay right where you are. Think how comfortable that'll be for the winter!"

"Oh, right! I can survive in the Big Open, but who's gonna help you with all them fence posts the storms'll bring down? Good job y'd decided y' weren't gonna run me off y' range this time!"

"Come on then!" Slim stooped and hauled Jess to his feet.

They stood together, watching the long rays of the sinking sun gild the 'No Trespassing' sign. Time to start again. They spoke almost in the same breath.

"Time to go home."

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Bible refs: Jeremiah 2:22 and Psalm 51:7


	26. Chapter 26

.

.

.

 **Epilogue**

Seven months later

.

Tad Morgan watched with interest as the two horsemen rode quietly up Crystal Valley. He returned his rifle to its accustomed place on the porch, for his family had nothing to fear from these visitors. At this distance, the horses were more easily distinguishable than the men – a tall, rangy chestnut with a white blaze and a star-faced compact bay. But the way the horses were ridden was telling in itself. There was a harmony which made them one unit and, despite the relaxed and casual way in which they moved together, Tad had no doubt that if danger threatened, that unit would prove itself extremely efficient in defense or attack. This observation did not surprise him. He had formed a good opinion of Matthew Sherman on his first visit, and subsequent contact, mainly by letter, had reinforced his trust and respect for the man. Now he was curious to find out what Sherman's partner was like. From what he knew of Sherman's story and the search which he had undertaken for the child borne by his fiancée and perhaps fathered by his friend, the man for whom he had done all this must be something out of the ordinary.

But the horsemen were drawing near. Tad turned to the two women sitting on the porch. "Now we'll know," he said quietly. In spite of reassurances, at the back of all their minds was the fear that parental proof could remove the child from their care; with both parents living, it was not possible to legally adopt the baby without their consent.

As soon as the horses drew to a halt, Slim Sherman jumped down. His outstretched hand went first to Tad, then he moved towards Sarah, but was surprised out of the greeting he had intended to give.

"Amelia!" Moved by an impulse of pure affection and respect, Slim enveloped her in a warm hug. "I'm so glad to see you here!"

"It's m'home now," the old woman told him and when he registered the inevitable surprise, she added: "The child has a little of Jethro's blood. I want to see her grow and flourish. Seems more sense 'n livin' out the end of m'life alone in heartbreak valley."

While this had been going on, the other man had remained on his horse. He was taking a good look round the valley and the prosperous homestead. By the expression on his face, he approved. He hitched a leg over the saddle-horn and slid down to land lightly, facing the orchard. He had of course spotted the two children playing under the trees.

"Tad, Sarah, Amelia – this is my partner, Jess Harper."

The man turned towards them almost reluctantly, as if his whole being was tied to the children, oblivious though they were of his presence. Although he had ridden up the valley with a relaxed confidence, now he was intensely focused on the family and their response to this introduction. He moved first to the women, reaching out a hand to each of them, his vivid blue gaze full of wonder and hope and thankfulness.

"Thank you!" His voice was naturally deep and resonant, but fierce emotion rendered it husky. Only two words, but Sarah knew that his whole heart lay in them.

Amelia ignored his hand and looked him over with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Well, if you ain't a wild one, I never followed a handsome rapscallion all the way from Omaha! Y'expect me t' put up with just a handshake from a fine-lookin' young man like you?"

Jess Harper grinned. The grin was a very engaging one. One eyebrow quirked as he returned Amelia's scrutiny. Only for a moment. Then he laughed outright and said, as he enveloped her in a thorough hug, "I never could resist a challenge, but I'm guessin' I have t' get in the queue when it comes to beggin' a dance with you!"

"I'll keep y' in mind," Amelia told him primly, but spoilt the effect by one of her characteristic cackles. "Reckon they'll be queuin' up for you too!"

Slim suppressed a chuckle that was half a groan. _Just typical of Jess to exert all his charm on the nearest single female, regardless of age!_

Jess, however, was not distracted from the important and serious business which had brought them to the valley. He turned to Tad and held out his hand. "I owe you – we owe you – so much. She ain't gonna lack a father and a family!"

Tad grasped the offered hand and looked the man up and down. He saw a lean, tough frame, poised for action and powered by deep reserves of an energy which went far beyond the physical. He saw a face open and vulnerable to the pains and pride of parenthood. He felt for a heart which would give its life-blood to protect the children of his family – and recognised a spirit which understood the deep and holy stream running through the lives of succeeding generations. He knew the man's - Jess's - words did not stem from a disregard of the essential part the women played in the family, but were driven by an overwhelming relief that he could trust someone to fulfil the child's need for fathering unfailingly and without question.

It took a few minutes for this intense communication to pass between the two of them. Then Tad saw Jess's acute physical awareness relax and his eyes change so that they twinkled with fun and appreciation of all the simple, daily joys and trials which made up family life. He pulled Jess into a hug and they thumped each other companionably on the back.

"Come and have some coffee and something to eat," Sarah invited her guests.

Slim laughed. "Hasn't anyone warned you of the dangers a Harper appetite poses to any kitchen?"

"In that case, he must be _Levi's_ father," Sarah joked. "That boy never stops eating!"

"He's got the right idea," Jess grinned. "Ain't no knowin' in life where your next meal is comin' from. Your boy must've been raised from long-headed stock."

Tad grinned too. "If we run out of food, we'll call on you to help feed him."

Slim and Jess exchanged looks and Slim said: "Seriously, we're more than happy to help you, whatever you have a need for."

Jess nodded in agreement. "Ain't tryin' to say y' won't make a success of this spread – looks real good – but hard times come to us all. If they come to you, we've got your backs!"

"And when you have a barn-raising, don't forget to include us," Slim added. "Jess lives such an idle life, it'll do him good to work up a sweat!"

This remark was followed by a momentary scuffle, although it was quickly resolved into a truce when Amelia and Sarah brought out the coffee and biscuits. They were just as excellent as Slim remembered. The five adults settled on the porch and watched the active play of the two toddlers under the orchard trees.

After Tad had consumed a large quantity of biscuit, Jess snatched a last piece himself and commented: "If that boy has a huge appetite, I guess he's definitely yours."

"Pot? Kettle?" Slim murmured, before hastily posing the question which was on his mind. "Your boy's Levi, isn't he? But what did you finally decide to name the baby?"

"Talitha," Sarah replied simply.

Before she could say more, Jess laughed on a breath that almost a sob. _"Weep not. She is not dead, but sleepeth_."

Sarah felt a sudden welling of affection. She knew that Jess understood how the name affirmed the awakening to a new and blessed life for a child born so close to death.

"Talitha. A young woman. May we all live to see her grow into that name," Slim said softly. He too knew the story well and appreciated the joy and the hope for the future which it encompassed.

Amelia, however, brought them all back to the reality of earth. "An' I trust, when she _is_ a young woman, you two are gonna lend Tad and Levi a hand, to keep off them hordes o' young bucks who'll be buzzin' round her!"

"Just call. M'shotgun's at the ready," Jess grinned and Slim laughingly pledged his assistance too. It was good to be able to think of such a positive future.

They were all focused on the little figure under the blossoming trees. All except Tad. He was watching Jess. He could see the desire almost shaking the other man, but knew that, without permission, he would not trespass in childhood's garden. Knowing Jess's story in some detail, Tad understood the devastating effect of the mother's denial of his right to know his child and the terrible pain of thinking the little one had been killed. As a father, Tad would have felt exactly the same himself. But, despite the power of these emotions, here was no arrogant, demanding claim of blood or law, as Tad had feared – only the need for reassurance and healing.

Presently he said: "The little 'uns are never tired of playing. They'll welcome you."

Jess did not move, overwhelmed perhaps by the final ending to loss and grief.

Slim looked at his partner with generosity and compassion. "Go on!" he urged gently. He, after all, had at least held the precious child in his arms.

Jess rose to his feet. He stood quite still. He slowly unbuckled his gun-belt and laid it over the back of his chair. Then he walked across to the orchard quietly and with the infinite care of one stalking a valuable and watchful prey.

The children paused in their play as he approached, but decided that the stranger was an adventure, not a threat. The small boy, bold and innocent, flung his arms round Jess's leg. Jess laughed and picked him up, swung him round and up into the air, eliciting squeals of excitement. When Jess had spun him in a full circle, he deposited Levi safely on his feet and sent him on his way to his parents with an encouraging pat.

The little girl regarded Jess with all the devastating insight of a very young child. Her scrutiny seemed to last for ever. Then she held out her arms. Jess dropped to his knees and opened his own arms. Talitha ran into them.

Presently, Slim strolled down and joined the pair sitting in the long grass under the blossom-laden branches of the orchard trees. Close together as they all three were, neither Jess's features nor his own could be distinguished in the child.

Jess cradled the little girl gently, murmuring in the tongue of his childhood: "Precioso milagro!" Then he turned to Slim, his face alight with pride, amusement and a confident certainty. "She sure is beautiful, but she don't favor either of us an' that's probably why! Guess we're gonna have to share the credit for her," he said, "seein' as how red hair runs in both our families."

"That sounds good!" Slim agreed readily.

Talitha chuckled, as if she had understood their love and commitment for her. She stretched out her arms to the branches of the tree above. Jess lifted her up until she could reach the fragile, fragrant blossoms. Her little hands released a shower of petals, a cloud of dazzling white enwrapping all three of them and crowning her glowing hair.

A flower without a thorn.

.

* * *

.

NOTES:

Yes, there is a third story in this trilogy. It is in the planning stage now. Given how long it takes to plan, write, correct, upload, proof and post a story of this length, I think it will not appear before the end of the year. Thank you for your patience and encouragement.

Acknowledgements:

For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors.

Thanks as always to Westfalen for researching my many historical and episode questions.

Notes at the end of chapters indicate researched sources. More background information can be found at my website: _Jántallian's Tales,_ which is due to go live shortly.


End file.
